No Rest for the Weary
by Grissomgal71
Summary: STORY COMPLETE! Grissom comes down with a nasty case of the flu, but before he can recuperate he and the team are drawn into a messy murder that begins to remind Grissom of an unsolved case from 15 years ago...
1. Bugs

**Title:  No Rest for the Weary**

**Author:  Grissomgal71**

**Rating:  PG-13**

**Category:  Angst/Mystery**

**Disclaimer:  I still don't own them, sadly.  I just love 'borrowing' them and doing stuff to them ****J**

**A/N:  Here I am, back with my second attempt!  I was a little reluctant to start posting this one, since it is currently still a 'work-in-progress.'  I hope, though, that as I post I will continue working on the story, moving it further ahead, so that there won't be too much of a time lag between chapters.  This one is perhaps a little more 'fluffy' than _Theft of Reason, but there is a case in there somewhere—I promise!  I hope everyone enjoys this story _****J  Once again, I owe Grissom HUGE thanks for being such a wonderful beta and friend ****J**

**Chapter 1:  Bugs**

Gil Grissom opened his eyes, rolled over, and looked at the clock.  From the intensity of the light sneaking in around the edges of the closed blinds, he knew it was too early to be awake.  Reading the numbers glowing on the face of the digital clock on his nightstand confirmed that he was right.  He groaned and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He sat there for a moment, rubbing his eyes.  He was wiped out.  He and his team had wrapped up a messy double murder earlier this morning.  They had been working on it almost three days straight with very little sleep.  Grissom had come home and crashed a few hours earlier.  He had slept for maybe two solid hours before he had realized that he suddenly could no longer breathe through his nose.  He had tossed and turned restlessly for another couple of hours after that before giving up.

Now he felt like hell.  His head felt oddly full and heavy, and throbbed with dull pain; his throat was dry and scratchy.  Grabbing a tissue, he sneezed and then began coughing—hacking, congested waves emanating from his chest.  After clearing his nose and throat, he admitted to himself that he must have caught a cold or something.  He toyed with the idea of calling in sick, but he had never done that in his twenty years of working at the LVPD criminalistics lab.  There was very little that could keep Grissom from work.

He glanced at the clock again.  There were still almost eight hours until the start of the graveyard shift.  He decided to take a couple of antihistamine tablets and try to catch some more sleep before he had to head to work.  Still sitting there, he felt a sudden chill ripple across his bare chest and back.  Shivering in response, he mentally blamed the air conditioner setting.  Finally pushing himself to his feet, he walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.  Popping two pills out of a small foil tray, he swallowed them with some water.  Settling into bed again, he lay on his back waiting for the medicine to take effect.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom hadn't given the pills much time to work.  He had quickly become uncomfortable and irritated lying in bed, unable to breathe freely, so he had given up the quest for sleep once again.  Now he was sitting in the kitchen, eating the scrambled eggs and toast he had prepared.  He had been hungry before, but now the food sat uneasily in his stomach.  Taking a deep breath to will away the queasiness, he realized that he was starting to feel drowsy—a common side effect of the medicine he had taken.  He debated going back to bed for one last try when the phone rang.

"Grissom," he said, picking up the receiver.

"Gil, it's Jim."

"What's going on?"

Jim thought his voice sounded odd, but didn't comment on it.  "Sorry to disturb you—I know you and the guys just got off that double—but we have a DB out in the desert."

"Can't days handle it?"

"No, we need you."

"Insect activity?" Grissom asked, finally figuring it out.

"Yup, plenty of your little creepy crawly friends."

"Tell me where," Grissom said, exhaling tiredly.  He listened to Brass' directions, then promised, "I'll be there in half an hour."

"Thanks, Gil," the captain responded, and hung up.

Feeling a bit fuzzy now as a result of the antihistamine tablets, Grissom decided a shower might help wake him up and even steam out some of the congestion in his head and chest.  He had just enough time for a quick one before he had to start the twenty-minute drive out to where Brass was.  He knew that with insects already on the body, time was a key element.  Putting his dishes in the sink, Grissom headed for the bathroom.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom pulled up near the two police cars, with their red and blue lights flashing silently.  The two uniformed officers who belonged to the cars were standing near the yellow crime scene tape they had strung around the perimeter.  Brass walked up next to the open window of Grissom's dark blue SUV.

"Morning," he said as Grissom turned toward him.  "Dead guy's over that way, about twenty yards, and I have to go.  Another call in town.  No rest for the weary, as they say.  Keep me informed."

Grissom nodded.  "Thanks, Jim," he offered as the police captain headed toward his unmarked car.

The criminalist climbed down out of his vehicle.  He pulled off his sunglasses and reached inside for a tissue.  He had thought ahead enough to throw a fresh box into his front seat.

Sara Sidle parked her own Yukon a short distance from Grissom's, facing the opposite direction.  He hadn't seen her yet, but she watched him emerge from the driver's side and blow his nose into a tissue.  Then she saw him pull his "FORENSICS" windbreaker tighter around his body and snap it all the way up to his neck, as if he were freezing.  Meanwhile, Sara herself had tossed her lightweight jacket into the SUV, but was still sweating in the severe desert sun.  She grabbed her field kit and camera and headed over to Grissom.

"Hey," she said.  Now that she was closer, she could tell that something was definitely wrong.  He had his arms crossed in front of him, and he was shivering.  Raising her gaze, she noticed that his normally alert blue eyes were glassy and his face flushed.  "Are you okay?" she asked him.

"Fine, why?"

"You look like you're…cold."

He didn't answer, but she could see his body convulsing with shivers.

"Grissom, it's 110 degrees out here," she explained, concern flooding her voice.  She reached up and placed a gentle hand on his cheek, and then moved it to his forehead.  Her brow knitted as she felt the intense heat radiating from his skin.

"Chalk again?" he asked, trying weakly for sarcasm.

"No, fever," she replied.  "Which you have, big time."

"I'm all right," he told her, his voice low and nasal.

"You don't look all right.  You should be home in bed."

"Maybe, but I can't be.  Because this guy is covered in insects, and I'm the only one who can do the linear regression."

She knew he was right, but she was still worried; he looked quite ill to her.  "Then let's get going," she said, walking in the direction of the body.

Grissom took his kit out of the back of the Yukon and followed closely behind Sara.  She held the yellow tape up as he ducked underneath.

"Did Brass call you, too?" he asked.

"Yeah, and Catherine, I think."

"Sorry you had to get woken up, too."

"It's no problem," she said, smiling.  "You know I don't need much sleep."

She began searching the sand surrounding the victim for any signs of what had happened.

"He wasn't killed here," Grissom announced, hunkering down by the body and snapping on a pair of latex gloves.  "Not enough blood."

"I've got tire tracks and shoe prints," Sara said, clicking some photos with the camera that had been over her shoulder.  "Some are fresher than others—could belong to the vehicle that transported him here."

"Good," Grissom told her, then he got several specimen jars out of his kit and started collecting the various maggots, flies, and beetles that were crawling all over the dead man.

After working for a while, Grissom had a large beetle between his tweezers and was studying it.  Then, suddenly, it seemed that the medicine he had taken fully kicked in, freeing up his airways.  The sickly sweet smell of the rotting corpse assaulted his nostrils all at once, strong and clingy, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably in response.  He tried to quell the growing nausea, but it felt beyond his control.  He had experienced the scent of decomposing flesh many, many times; he had thought he was immune to it.  But now it seemed different.  He wasn't used to his body reacting this way at crime scenes, and although he was trying, he was afraid he couldn't stop it.  "Sara," he called softly.

She almost didn't hear his quiet recitation of her name, but she caught the weak word, and turned in his direction as he said it again, "Sara…"

Glancing at him, she caught the helpless, panicked look in his eyes, and noticed that his face was no longer flushed, but had gone a sickly ashen gray.  He seemed frozen to the spot, and she didn't think even he could hold back the inevitable right now.  Knowing exactly what was going to happen, she began walking quickly towards him.

"I think I'm going to…" he gasped.

"Not here!" she told him, slightly alarmed, pulling him hard by his arm and getting him up.  "They'll see, and you'll ruin the evidence."  She dragged him off to a nearby thick scrub of dry bushes and leafless trees.  The vegetation grew down into a dip quite a bit lower than the surface of the sand, and there was a two-tiered metal barrier to prevent people and vehicles from slipping down the side of the indentation.  Sara stood Grissom next to the barrier and pushed him gently forward.  "Fire when ready," was all that she said.

She had barely gotten him into position when his protesting stomach began to violently empty itself of everything he'd eaten in the past six hours.  Sara looked away, but kept a hand on his back, rubbing gently up and down.  She wanted to offer him assistance and comfort, but didn't think she needed to see all the messy details.  She could hear it all well enough as it was.

It was all over fairly quickly.  Sara turned back around when she heard Grissom clearing his throat and mouth of any bitter remnants.  She found him wiping his face with a handkerchief he had had in his pocket.

He met her eyes, his face pale, drawn, and sweat-drenched.  "I'm sorry, Sara," he offered shakily.  "That was completely…inappropriate."  He glanced away, ashamed.

Sara felt a huge wave of sympathy for him.  The poor guy—here he was, sick as a dog, dragging himself down here when he should be home in bed, because they needed his entomological expertise, and he was mortified because he had shown her a weakness he thought he shouldn't have.  She knew this wasn't normal behavior for him.  He was nothing if not professional at every crime scene, regardless of how brutal or blood-soaked the display, or how putrid the odor.

Sara had always thought that, next to Grissom, she had the strongest stomach of the bunch of them.  But even she had lost it once.  It was a year or so ago, and she and Nick had been examining the clothes from the body—actually it had been less a body and more just the remains—of a victim they had dubbed "Liquid Man."  The smell of the liquefied corpse was more horrible than anything Sara could remember, and she had turned away from the table and vomited into the nearest wastebasket.  She had pleaded with Nick not to tell, and so far he had kept his word.  The only other person who could possibly have known about it would have been the janitor who cleaned out the small garbage can.  But Grissom's situation today was different.  She knew he was really sick, even if he wouldn't admit it.

Her hand was still on his back and she moved it to his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.  "Hey, it's okay.  Things happen.  You're not feeling well.  I know this had nothing to do with the crime scene."

When he turned back to her, she couldn't believe how awful he still looked.  If possible, he looked even worse than before.  Sara had always thought throwing up was supposed to make you feel better.  At least it had in her experience.  But it obviously hadn't worked for Grissom.  The only color that had come back to his sweaty face was some redness high on his cheekbones.  His eyes were shadowed and subdued, exhaustion pouring out from them.  If he felt even half as bad as he looked, Sara could only imagine how miserable he must be, and she wanted to do something, anything, to help him feel better, but she didn't know what she could do.  Then she thought of something.  "Stay here," she told him.  "I've got some water in my truck.  I'll be right back."

Quickly covering the distance to her SUV and back, Sara approached him with a bottle of water and a few paper towels.  He was still standing in the same spot, leaning over the top of the barrier.  He had not straightened up yet, wanting to make sure that he wasn't going to be sick again.

She unscrewed the cap on the bottle and poured some water onto the paper towels.  The water was not chilled, but fairly cold, thanks to the air-conditioned interior of her Yukon.  Leaning toward Grissom, she held onto his arm with one hand as she gently wiped the wet paper towels over his entire face with the other.  She even ran the towels over the front and back of his neck, hoping the brisk wetness would be somewhat refreshing, and maybe cool him off a little.  When she was done, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and she thought he looked the slightest bit more like himself.

She reached toward him and brushed some damp hair away from the side of his face.  "Better?" she asked.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, opening his eyes and glancing at her.  He didn't quite smile, but the hint of one hovered at the corner of his mouth.

Sara was happy that she had helped him, even if it was just the tiniest amount.  "Here," she offered, handing him the two-thirds full bottle of water.

He took it and rinsed his mouth out several times, sloshing the water around and then spitting it over the side of the scrubby indentation.  There was still some liquid left, and he drank it, sipping cautiously at first and then downing the rest in two large gulps.  He put the empty plastic bottle in his pocket, and then finally, slowly, straightened up.

"You ready to go back to work?" she asked him.  "I'm almost done with the prints and tire treads.  How are you doing with the bugs?"

"Practically done there, too.  I just need one or two more specimens."

"Okay, then let's finish up and get back to the lab."

They returned to where the body lay, and Grissom resumed his position squatted next to it, picking up where he had left off as if nothing had happened.  The beetle he had been examining earlier had scurried away from the tweezers he had dropped when Sara had desperately tugged him off to the side.  The insect had probably made a beeline straight back to the beckoning meal of flesh in front of it.  Grissom could never find the exact same one, of course, so he picked up another of the same species and lowered it into a plastic jar.  As he squinted at another insect he had grabbed between his tweezers, his head started throbbing.  He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, and then quickly tried to get samples of the last few larvae he needed.

They were completing their respective collecting as the young coroner stepped under the crime scene tape.  "Are you finished with the body?" he asked.

"All yours, David," Grissom said, gathering the last of his equipment.

As the two CSIs walked back to the cars, they saw Catherine pulling in.  They acknowledged her, and then Sara walked in her direction while Grissom went to load his insect-laden kit into the back of his Yukon.  "Hey," Sara greeted.

"Hey," Catherine replied.  "What's going on?"

Glancing at her watch, the younger woman said, her tone teasing, "Aren't you a little late?  We're already done here."

"Yeah, sorry," Catherine replied.  "Brass called me about an hour and a half ago.  I had to line up someone to pick up Lindsey from school.  I got here as soon as I could.  So, what have you got?"

"Not much.  A DB, male, probably been here a couple of days, covered with insects.  We don't have an ID yet."

Grissom joined them at that moment, and Sara continued before Catherine could even get a good look at him, "Oh, and Grissom's sick."

"Sick?" Catherine wondered, turning to stare at him.

"Yeah—coughing, sneezing, fever, chills, you name it," Sara rattled off.

"Sounds like the flu."

"And he just had a little reunion with his breakfast over by the side of the crime scene," Sara added quickly.

"Really?"  Catherine's reaction was equal parts complete surprise and extreme concern.

Sara nodded, while Grissom glared weakly at her.  She hadn't told Catherine about the little "incident" to embarrass Grissom, but to let Catherine know how serious the situation was.  Sara knew Grissom wouldn't take proper care of himself, so it was going to be up to her and Catherine to make sure he got well and didn't make himself any sicker.

Now that Catherine had had a chance to study Grissom, what Sara had said was quite obvious.  Catherine, too, noticed how his coloring was off, how his eyes looked, and how he seemed to be pulling his jacket closer around himself in the middle of the stifling desert.  She also repeated Sara's earlier gesture of touching his forehead and face, using her experienced "mother's hands" to gauge his temperature.  "She's right, Gil," Catherine began.  "We need to get you home and off your feet, pronto."

Grissom and Sara shook their heads simultaneously.  "He can't go home," she explained.  "He has to do the insect regression on our vic.  We need to know when he died."

"How long does that take?"  Catherine knew he had done work like this before, and that it was tedious and complex, but she wasn't sure how much time was required.

"Normally, a few hours to get things started," Grissom replied.

"I don't think you're gonna make it a few hours, Gil," Catherine intoned gently.  "You look like you're about to collapse right now.  You're burning up with fever, exhausted, and I'm sure dehydrated, too.  How can you handle the kind of intense, time-consuming work that it takes to do your insect regression?"

"How I feel doesn't matter, Catherine," Grissom told her.  "All that counts is the evidence, and it can't just wait around until I'm better."

She knew it was true.  She had never fully understood the process that Grissom used to find out how long a person has been dead by studying the types and ages of the insects found on the body.  In fact, she would venture a guess that no matter how intelligent they were, no one at CSI, save Grissom himself, understood it all either.  She also knew that Grissom was one of only fifteen or so entomologists in the whole country who could do one of these "linear regressions."  That's why Brass had needed him today, and that's why the very ill scientist would be knocking himself out in the lab for hours when he should be home resting in order to fight off whatever tough strain of virus had gotten him in its grip.

After her moment of thought, Catherine spoke again, "Okay, are you two sure you got everything you need from this scene?"

Both Sara and Grissom nodded in the affirmative.

"Great, let's head back to the lab.  I'm with you, Grissom, and I'm driving."  She cut him off with a look before he could protest.  "Sara, would you mind making a stop before meeting us back at CSI?" 

"Of course not," Sara replied.  "Where do you need me to go?"

"Come on, I'll tell you as we walk."  Catherine stepped to Sara and put her arm around her shoulders, turning them both in the opposite direction.  Then she called to their boss over her shoulder, "Grissom, get in the car.  I'll be right back."

He obediently trudged around to the passenger side and climbed into the SUV as the women headed off to Sara's matching vehicle.

After speaking to one of the officers and arranging for the return of her own SUV to the CSI lab, Catherine joined Grissom and started up the engine, adjusting the seat to fit her smaller frame.  She handed him a bottle of water saying, "A little gift from Sara."  As they began their dusty drive back to the main road, Catherine heard Grissom sneeze three times into a tissue and then start coughing.

She grimaced and glanced over at him.  "You've definitely caught a nasty bug there.  Did you take anything for that this morning?"

"A couple of antihistamines," he replied, his voice made deeper by the congestion.

"Did you bring the rest of them with you?"

"Actually, I did."  He patted the front of his jacket over the location of his shirt pocket.

"I think maybe it's time for another round of medicine, don't you?"

"I can't take these right now because they make me too drowsy.  I need to be as alert as possible when I work with the insects.  I need a clear head for calculations."

"I don't think your head is all that clear as it is, Gil."

He coughed again, and then nodded.  "You're right, but I have to do my best."  He cracked open the bottle of water and took a couple of sips.

"I think I still have that mentholatum in my purse," she suggested.

He made a face.  "I can't use that stuff, Catherine."

"Why not?"

"The smell of it makes me sick."

"You're already sick," she quipped.

"You know what I mean," he said, giving her a look.

"You didn't seem to mind that day you were in the holding cell in Mulberry."

"That was different," he insisted.  "I used your menthol to fume that print of Millander's.  I did _not rub it on any part of my body."_

He sneezed again, twice.

"Really, Gil," she began, her tone softly serious now, "you can't work in the lab in this condition.  You'll contaminate the evidence."

He tried, but he couldn't come up with a logical rebuttal, so he remained silent.

But Catherine had already thought ahead.  "It's okay.  I told Sara to pick up some stuff at a drug store.  She's going to bring you some decongestants that won't put you to sleep and something for that fever."

"Thanks, Catherine."  He took another pull on the water bottle.  He was thirsty and his mouth was very dry, but as he felt the water sloshing around in his empty stomach, it lost its appeal.  He screwed the cap back on and placed the bottle in one of the cup holders.

"That's just to get you through your work with the insects," she informed him.  "After that, you're going straight home to bed."

"The shift won't be over," he protested.  "I never call in sick."

"You're not 'calling in sick,' Gil, you're 'going home sick.'  There's a difference.  It'll only be after you've done your part for the case."

"But I need to be there.  I'm the supervisor," he argued weakly.

"You _know_ I can do that job better than you," she pointed out.  "I'll be there.  Or Sara or Warrick could take over.  It'll only be for a night or two."

"I'm not worried that you _can't do my job, I just don't want you to __have to do it.  It takes a lot of extra time—time I know you'd rather spend with Lindsey."_

She blew her breath out in annoyance.  Grissom could be so exasperating!  Here he was, getting all sweet and thoughtful on her when she was trying to tease and chastise him.  "Yes, I would rather be with my daughter," she replied.  "But I think I can handle it for a couple of days until you're feeling up to it.  If you don't take it easy, you'll end up getting sicker instead of better."

Grissom was too tired to talk about it any more.  He just stared silently out the front windshield, trying not to think about how completely exhausted he was or how much his head hurt.

Catherine looked over at him and saw that he had given up the discussion.  "What is it about you and missing work anyway, Grissom?" she ventured, keeping her tone light.  "Are you going for a perfect attendance award or something?"

He graced her with a half-hearted glance, and seeing his face straight-on just reminded her how terrible he looked and how bad he must feel.  She tried to be less teasing and more sympathetic as she said, "Never mind.  I know—your work is your life.  But you're not up to 100 percent, and I just want you to spend some time taking care of yourself."

"I appreciate it, Cath, but right now I'm needed at the lab, and so I have to be there."

"That's why we're heading in that direction," she replied.  "But if you don't mind, I'm going to make sure you don't push yourself too hard while you're getting the job done."

"I don't mind," he told her, knowing that Catherine's words came from a place of deep friendship.  He was grateful that she cared about him, even though he didn't show it as often as he should.  He just hoped she knew she could always count on him for the same.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	2. Respite

**A/N:  A big thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter 1!  I'm glad a few of you like this story and I hope you stick with it.  Some dramatic license has been taken with the layout of Brass's office for the purposes of this fic.  I hope no one minds too much!  ****J**

**Chapter 2:  Respite**

It had been three hours, and Grissom was still locked in his office with his bugs.  Catherine and Sara had made sure that they doped him up on plenty of cold medicine and aspirin before he began the painstaking work with the insects.  He had studied, measured, pinned-up, photographed, watched, timed, and re-measured all the different species and stages of the flies and beetles.  He had also taken copious, detailed notes every few minutes.

Right now he was measuring a tiny, developing insect with a caliper, and then comparing its size and appearance to pictures in a thick entomology text.  He had already done it twice and was working on the third time as his frustration and discomfort grew.  His headache, which had dissipated earlier, was back now and throbbing in full force.  His eyes burned harshly and watered occasionally, making concentration increasingly difficult.  As he leaned over the large open book, he felt a tickle in his nose and throat, and he turned away quickly, grabbing a tissue and sneezing as far away from the worktable as he could.  He shivered, when just a moment ago he had been sweating, and ran an impatient hand through his hair.  He had to pull himself together to do this right.

He attempted the measurement one last time, and got an accurate number.  He went to jot it in the logbook in front of him, but stopped when the columns of writing began to swim in and out of focus.  He blinked hard, several times, and looked again, but everything was still blurry.  Exhaling deeply, Grissom pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, willing away the intense pain and blinding exhaustion.

Sara knocked, and then walked into the office.  She was holding two plastic beverage bottles—one of water and one of apple juice—between the fingers of her left hand.  When she saw Grissom leaning over the table, his hands over his eyes, she hurried to him, dropping the drinks on the nearest shelf.  "Are you all right?" she asked, touching his shoulder, breathless worry evident in her voice.

He dropped his arms and tried to focus on her with his bleary, red-rimmed eyes.

"You do _not look good," Sara told him.  "I think it's time for a break, Grissom."_

He rubbed his eyes harder, and finally got Sara's face to appear clearly in his vision.  "I'm not done yet," he protested weakly.

"You need to rest," she said.  "You can't even see straight.  I doubt your calculations would be accurate right now anyway."

"But I can't just leave…"

"I'll watch after the bugs for you, Grissom."

He seemed surprised by her offer, but also grateful.  To be truthful, he was utterly out on his feet.  "But you _hate bugs."_

"I know."  She smiled.  "Just tell me what to do."

He started to lead her to the table and board where all the equipment and specimens were, but she stopped.

"Wait a minute," she said.  "Let me go tell Catherine what's going on.  We have to come up with a place where you can sack out and not be bothered for a while."  Before heading out of the room, she picked up the bottles she had left on the shelf and handed them to him.  "Here you go.  I didn't know what you wanted, so I brought both water and juice.  Drink something—you need to keep yourself hydrated."  With that, she was out the door.

A few minutes later, the two women returned to the back room.  Grissom held the now half-empty apple juice bottle in his hand, as he tried to explain in as much detail as possible what he needed Sara to do.  It involved taking photos in ten-minute intervals, and doing some measurements and other things.  Although insects gave her the creeps, she would do her best to not mess up Grissom's involved work so far.  Despite his exhaustion, Grissom was still reluctant to leave.  But he gave in as Catherine gently pulled him from the room.  "Thanks, Sara," he called over his shoulder.

As she led him toward the outer exit, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"I spoke to Brass, and he said you could use his office to get some sleep.  He's got that big couch in there, and we can close the blinds and lock the door.  No one will bother you."

He glanced back toward his office where they had left Sara.

"I know it's going a little out of the way, but I couldn't think of any place in the lab you could rest undisturbed," Catherine explained.

"I was almost done with the beginning of the linear regression," he replied.  "I can't leave Sara there too long.  We're almost up to the critical point."

"Just for a couple of hours, Gil," Catherine pleaded.  "Please.  You need it."

He looked at her with exhausted eyes, and nodded as they stepped into the gathering darkness of the Las Vegas dusk.  The LVPD building was close by, but not within quick walking distance—about a five-minute drive.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine closed the last of the blinds in Brass's office, plunging the room into almost total darkness.  She clicked on the desk lamp for some illumination—just until Grissom got settled.  Right now he was standing there, in a bit of a daze, so Catherine removed the apple juice bottle that was still clutched in his hand and then gave him instructions, "Lab coat off."  She helped him shed it and hung it neatly over the wooden coat rack in the corner.  "Shoes off."

The object of her directions continued to stand there, unmoving, and she didn't know whether he was playing with her or if he was really that out of it; she guessed the latter and that just increased her concern.  She took his arm and gave him a little shake.  "Gil?"

He looked down at her and tried to focus on her voice.  He was so far past complete exhaustion that he felt like he was shrouded in a thick fog; everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

Once it appeared that she had his attention, she said, "Sit on the couch and take off your shoes."

He lowered himself heavily onto the well-worn piece of furniture.  The muscles in his back and legs were throbbing and he couldn't wait to stretch out on the sofa, which was fortunately long enough to fit his full 5'11" frame fairly comfortably.  As he removed his shoes and placed them neatly next to the couch, Catherine went to the closet to find the pillow and blanket Brass had told her were there.  She brought the items over to Grissom, handing him the pillow.  He arranged it near one arm of the sofa and laid down, lifting his legs onto the cushions and settling on his right side.  He couldn't contain a groan of relief as he finally freed his aching body from the pull of gravity.

Catherine covered him with the blanket and turned off the desk light, but she didn't leave the room.  She pulled a chair next to the couch, and sat there, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the near blackness.  When they did, she was able to make out his face, and saw that his eyes were closed.  Several minutes dragged by, and Grissom, without opening his eyes, mumbled, "I can't sleep with you watching me."  He had felt Catherine's gaze on him through the thick darkness, and he knew she was still there.

"Well, I'm not leaving until I know you're asleep," she replied softly.

Grissom exhaled deeply and tried to quiet his mind.  Luckily, although many things nagged at him, sleep was coming to engulf him at a rapid pace.

After a few more minutes, Catherine abandoned the chair and kneeled on the floor next to Grissom.  She began gently stroking his hair, first the sides and then the top, her fingers sliding through his soft curls, her fingertips grazing his temple and forehead.  Her brow knitted when she realized that his skin was still much warmer than it should be, but the worry lines relaxed as her attention turned to the state of his breathing.  She listened as his respiration slowed.  Congestion caused the air to move raggedly, half through his nose and half through his open mouth, but the rhythm was becoming more even as he fell further into sleep.

As Grissom slipped into the welcoming darkness, he could sense Catherine's fingers moving repeatedly over his face and through his hair.  Normally, he would have resisted such uncharacteristic contact, but now he found it especially soothing, and he silently thanked Catherine as he drifted off into a deep slumber.

Satisfied that he would be out for a while, Catherine slowly stood, reluctantly breaking her physical connection with Grissom.  Quietly, she crept to the door and shut it behind her as soundlessly as she could manage.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

It was an hour later, when Catherine went back to check on Grissom.  She had already attended the autopsy of their young man from the desert.  Doc Robbins had told her that the vic had been stabbed four times with what was most probably a serrated hunting knife.  The edges of the wound tracts were ragged and torn.  But they still didn't know who he was or have many clues as to who his killer might have been.

Then a new case had come in—a 406 in Henderson—and Brass had brought it straight to Catherine, knowing that Grissom was currently 'unavailable.'  The police captain could hardly believe that the workaholic graveyard shift supervisor was actually 'sleeping on the job,' but when Catherine had explained to him how sick Grissom was, Brass had let it go without further comment.  Catherine had handed off the assignment to Nick and Warrick, who had come into the lab well before the official start of shift.  After that, she had checked in with Sara—she was doing very well with the bugs, trying hard not to do anything to jeopardize Grissom's data.

Catherine opened the door of Brass's office, slipped inside, and gently closed it, trying not to let any errant light into the darkened room.  As her eyes adjusted to the shadows once again, it appeared that Grissom was sleeping peacefully, and Catherine smiled.   Then, moving closer to him, she realized that he was definitely sleeping, but not at all serenely.  Instead, he was shivering miserably, the blanket rumpled and discarded near his waist.  He had either been tossing fitfully, or had felt overheated and flung off the cover.  Either way, he was cold now, despite the fever that Catherine knew was still raging.  She leaned over and pulled the blanket back up to his neck, trying to tuck it in place without waking him.  She could feel his body trembling beneath her hands, and she wished she could offer him more comfort or something that could instantaneously make him feel better, but she just did her best.  After a moment, she left him again, knowing with a pang of regret that she'd have to return all too soon to wake him.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Barely another hour had passed when Catherine returned reluctantly to Brass's office.  She snuck in quietly like before, listening to Grissom's congested breathing.  She really hated to wake him, knowing he needed much more than two hours of sleep on a lumpy couch.  As she walked over and squinted down at him, her only consolation was that after she disturbed him, she planned to get some food into him, let him finish up with his bugs, and then whisk him off to his house where he could climb into bed and recuperate in peace for a few days.  Holding that thought in her head, she leaned over and shook his arm.  "Gil?"  When she got no response, she shook him quite a bit harder.  "Gil?"

Getting nothing in return from him, Catherine felt herself fighting sudden panic throughout her body.  She turned around and clicked on the desk lamp.  Glancing down at him in the pool of brightness, he appeared okay—at least as okay as he could be under the current circumstances—but he still showed no signs of knowing she was there.  He had shifted onto his back now.  His eyes were closed; his face was ruddy with fever, yet still relaxed.  Letting out a calming breath, she mirrored her position from before, kneeling next to the couch.  She reached forward and gently touched his forehead and face.  His temperature had spiked even higher, and she mentally estimated it, deciding that it had not reached a dangerous level yet.  But it also didn't seem to be getting better—his skin was bone-dry, with no evidence of perspiration signaling that his fever was breaking.  Catherine was worried; she hoped that the next dose of aspirin would have more of an effect.

She moved her hands to his hair, and started running her fingers through it, her nails lightly scraping his scalp.  Her other hand went to his left arm, stroking up and down.  This time, her touches weren't meant to soothe, but to ease him slowly into wakefulness.  She finally got a reaction when he began to stir—his head rocking back and forth on the pillow.  Then his eyes fluttered open and he blinked several times.  It took a while for the face in front of him to become clear.

"Gil?" Catherine repeated, watching his eyes attempting to focus.  "Gil, wake up."

When he could finally see who was leaning over him, he rasped, his mouth and throat dry, "Cath?"

"It's me," she replied gently.  "Everything's okay.  It's just time to get up." Once again she thought about how much she hated doing this, especially since he had been sleeping so soundly.

She gave him a few minutes to regain his bearings, then took his arm to help him up.  She got him into a sitting position, and left him there as he slumped forward, rubbing his hands over his face to force himself to full awareness.

"Take these," she said, handing him four pills and the remaining apple juice.

He looked up at her and accepted her offering, downing all of them at once with a swallow of juice.  It was no longer cold, but still tasted fine as he finished up the bottle.

"Okay, let's go," Catherine told him, assisting him to his feet.  "Your bugs are waiting."  She grabbed his lab coat off the hook and folded it over her arm as they headed out to her car.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

As they returned to the crime lab, Grissom was surprised when Catherine began to steer him toward the break room.  He stopped walking, and asked, "What…?"

"I picked up something from the deli for you," she explained.

"I need to get back to the bugs and relieve Sara."

"No, you _need_ to eat."

"I'm not hungry, Catherine," he persisted, as she guided him into the room.  It wasn't entirely true; Grissom's stomach was painfully empty and he was tempted at Catherine's suggestion of food.  The last meal he had eaten was over nine hours ago, but the last meal he had actually kept down was probably twelve hours before that.  He was still afraid that what happened earlier at the crime scene might happen again if he ate anything.

She sat him down at the long table, and opened up the paper bag on the counter.  "It's chicken soup, the great American cure-all.  It's pretty bland, Gil.  You'll feel better with something warm in your stomach.  And it'll give you some energy."  She opened the Styrofoam container and watched as thin steam escaped out the top.  She had gotten the soup about twenty minutes ago, and figured that the temperature should be just right by now.  She placed it in front of Grissom with a plastic spoon and a napkin.  Then she grabbed a cold bottle of juice from the refrigerator for him, and sat down at his side.

Grissom sniffed at the soup.  From what he could get through his clogged nasal passages, it smelled good—very good.  He knew he wouldn't be able to taste most of it, but he lifted a spoonful to his lips and tried it.  The soup went down easily and soothingly, although at first, Grissom's uncertain stomach wasn't totally accepting.  There were some uncomfortable, queasy waves before everything calmed down.  Then he swallowed the rest of the broth hungrily.

Smiling, Catherine handed him some crackers from the bag.  "I thought you said you weren't hungry."

He just looked at her sheepishly as he ate the crackers, and then drained the container of juice.

"Do you want something else?" she asked him, collecting the trash from the table.  "I could look around here for something for you, or go back to the deli."

"No, I'm fine.  Thanks, Cath," he replied.

She retrieved the two remaining packages of saltines from the paper bag and slipped them into his shirt pocket.  "For later—they're great for settling the stomach."

He smiled his thanks, and then went to the sink to wash his hands and splash some cold water on his face.  When he was done, he picked up his lab coat and put it back on.  "I've got to go give Sara a break," he said, heading out of the room and toward the DNA lab.

When he walked in, Sara was bending over the counter, scribbling some remarks as she closely watched the insects.  "Hey," she said to him, straightening up.

"I can finish up now," he told her, sliding his glasses on.  "Thanks again for doing this."

"Why don't I stay for a little while in case you have trouble deciphering my notes or something?"

"You don't mind?"

"Not at all."  She grinned at him.  "I actually found all this kind of fascinating, even though I still _hate_ bugs."  She watched as he checked over what she had done, and studied the development in his insects over the past two hours.  "How are you feeling?  You look a little better," she pointed out happily.

"Catherine fed me," he replied.

"That was a good idea.  It looks like it helped."

"So far, so good."

They fell into a studious, companionable silence as they resumed their observation of the bugs.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	3. Blood

**A/N:  Here's the next chapter.  Another thank you to all those who have reviewed this fic so far ****J  I had one question as to what my 'shippy affiliation' was, so I thought I'd try to explain it.  First and foremost, I am a Grissom hurt/comfort fan.  It's what I do and what I love to read.  Originally I didn't have a preference as to _who_ comforted him, as long as one of the women did **J  I hadn't wanted to keep either Sara or Catherine from enjoying that unique pleasure ******J  But now I guess I am starting to lean more toward the Grissom/Sara direction.  You can all blame (or thank) my beta and pal, 'Grissom,' for that!  If you stick with this story, you will soon see what I mean.  There's a little something in the next chapter and then once chapter 6 hits, my writing _definitely heads toward the G/S 'ship,' although I'm still not sure I'd be considered a full-fledged 'shipper' yet!  So read on and enjoy!_**

**Chapter 3:  Blood**

About an hour later, Catherine, Grissom, and Sara dropped by Brass's office.  It would take another half a day for Grissom's insects to mature so he could determine a time of death for their guy from the desert.  For right now, the CSIs were wondering if Brass had gotten any new information on his identity.  Grissom spoke for the group, "Any idea who our victim is yet?"

"Maybe," Jim replied, passing a folder to Catherine.  "I know you didn't get a hit off his prints.  But a missing person's report just came in.  The mother of a 22-year-old college student filed it.  She hasn't seen her son, Joseph Winston, in a week.  It wasn't that unusual until he didn't show up for a family dinner.  The mom called his friends and no one seemed to know where he was."

"Our John Doe fits his physical description?" Catherine inquired, skimming quickly through the report Brass had handed her.

"With the damage from the elements it's hard to tell, but I went to see the body, and I think it's pretty close.  Mrs. Winston is coming in for a positive ID."

Silence took over as they all processed that.  Catherine shuddered at the thought of any mother having to look at their child in that condition.  Then she glanced at Grissom's weary face and it reminded her that he needed her attention now.  He looked a bit better since he had eaten, but she thought it might only last until the medication wore off.  "Look," she told the other two, "I've got to get Grissom home.  Sara, can you take care of Mrs. Winston, and work on the other evidence you found at the scene until I get back?"

"Sure, Catherine," she answered.  She turned to Grissom.  "Feel better.  Make sure you get some rest."

"Yeah, Gil, listen to the ladies.  They're always right, as we know," Jim added with a wink, patting him on the arm as he and Sara left, headed for the morgue.

"Come on," Catherine said, guiding Grissom out to her car, which had been returned unscathed from the desert crime scene.  The two CSIs had already loaded Grissom's stuff into the back, knowing that she was going to be taking him home after they checked in with Brass.

They got in through their respective doors, and settled themselves in the welcoming, but rather cool, leather seats.  The night air had chilled considerably, and while she herself was comfortable, she wasn't surprised to notice Grissom shivering beside her.  "Cold?" she asked anyway.

"Yeah," he replied, the shaking of his body reaching his voice.

"I'll turn up the heat for you."  She stretched forward and adjusted the controls as she pulled out of the parking spot.

"Thanks, Catherine."  After a second or two, he added hurriedly, "I don't just mean for the heat now.  I mean for everything today, the way you…watched over me.  You and Sara both…you didn't have to do that, and I appreciate it."

She smiled at the embarrassment evident in his voice.  She didn't understand why he would be embarrassed about the concern she had shown him, but she found it totally endearing and extremely 'Grissom-like.'

"You don't have to thank me," she assured him.  "I know you're the boss, but you're not invincible, Gil.  Sometimes even _you_ need to be taken care of.  And when those times come, I'm more than happy to do it."  She reached over to squeeze his hand, and was shocked at how cold it felt in her grasp.  "Aren't you any warmer yet?"

"Not really," he admitted.

Although she was already starting to sweat in her wool overcoat, she turned the heat up a little more for Grissom.  She was glad he was finally heading for some long and needed rest.  Just then, Catherine's phone rang.  "Willows," she said into the mouthpiece.  "Oh, hi, Jim.  What's up?  We just left you."  She listened for a moment, and then blurted, "A what?  What happened? Who…?"  Knowing she was too agitated to continue to drive and talk simultaneously, she quickly but carefully veered the SUV to the shoulder of the road and put it into park.  Grissom stared at her, trying to figure out what was being said on the other side of the phone.

"But he's okay?" she continued.  Then there was a long pause.  "What about Greg?  Why don't you have Sara help him put together some equipment and send him out with her?"  She listened again, then answered hesitantly, "Okay, we'll be there as soon as possible…Thanks, Jim."

"What's going on?" Grissom asked immediately.  He could tell something important had occurred.

"Nicky had a little accident at the crime scene he and Warrick were working."  She watched him tense and lean forward, but explained further before he could say anything, "He's okay, it's not serious—just his ankle.  I sent him and Warrick to a burglary out in Henderson?"  Off his nod, she went on, "The place was totally trashed.  It was a large house, and it took them a long time to sort through everything.  Nick was checking out the basement when his foot got caught on something and he tripped.  Warrick's with him in the ER.  They're waiting for x-rays to see if it's broken.  It could just be a sprain."

"Warrick will keep us updated?"

She nodded.  "He told Jim he'd call as soon as they know anything."

Grissom exhaled audibly and leaned back against the seat.  He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his forehead.  Catherine knew this was the last thing he needed, and couldn't believe she was actually doing it, but she pulled onto the road again, moving into the left lane.  At the first opportunity she made a U-turn, heading away from Grissom's townhouse.

"What was that about Greg?" he asked, opening his eyes.  He instantly noticed the direction of the car and added, "Where are we going?"

"Another 419," she informed him.  "This one is out in Henderson, near Nick and Warrick's break-in.  They've only found one body so far, but there may be more.  Brass says it's a mess—blood everywhere."  She turned and caught his gaze for a moment in the light reflected by passing headlights.  Even in the mostly darkened SUV, she could see the complete exhaustion in his eyes.  "I'm sorry I've got to drag you out into this, Grissom, but we're going to need all hands on deck—especially since we're short two CSIs now.  That's why I told Brass to send Greg out with Sara."

"Good thinking," he replied.  "And with Nick and Warrick out of the picture, I should be there for something this size.  You guys can't do it alone."

"I guess your recuperation will have to wait," she said with a tiny grin, trying to make light of the situation.

"Evidently."

"Are you doing okay?"

"I think so."

"Well, we've got a bit of a drive—why don't you lie back and try to sleep?"

"I don't know if I could."

"You should try anyway," she told him.  "You're beat.  I won't mind.  Really."

"Are you sure?" he asked, lifting his head and looking at her.

"I think I can do without your sparkling conversation for a while," she answered lightly, smiling.

"It wasn't all that 'sparkling' tonight anyway."

"True.  That's why you should try to catch a nap."

"All right," he gave in, tilting the seat farther back and trying to get comfortable.  Catherine still had the heat blasting, and Grissom was finally getting warm.  He closed his eyes and hoped sleep would come quickly and dreamlessly.

After a few minutes had passed, Catherine attempted to shrug out of her wool jacket.  It was hard to do while driving, but after temporarily unhooking her seatbelt she was able to do it.  She tossed the heavy garment into the back seat.  Despite aiming the vents away from her, Catherine found it was now sweltering in the front seat of the Denali, and she knew she'd have to lower the heat very soon no matter how chilled poor Grissom was.

As several more miles slipped away, the low rumbling of the tires on pavement and the rhythmic motion of the car lulled Grissom into a light doze.  Catherine lowered the heat—she didn't turn it all the way off like she wanted to, she just clicked it down a few notches.  Shortly after she made the temperature adjustment, she heard the rustle of nylon as Grissom's arms unconsciously crossed over his chest, trying to keep the warmth in.  When Catherine glanced over at him, the meager light revealed the involuntary shaking of his body as he began shivering again.

She wished that she had kept her coat in the front so she could cover him with it, or had a blanket within reach.  But she realized that she wouldn't have been able to toss something over him and drive at the same time anyway.  And if she stopped the car to find something to keep him warm, she was certain he would wake up.  The fact that he was freezing in the hot interior of the Yukon sent Catherine the distressing message that his body temperature was not returning to normal, despite the regular doses of aspirin she had been giving him.

It took another half hour to get there, but Grissom and Catherine were still the first CSIs on the scene.  It was shorter distance from where they had been near Grissom's house than from the lab.  As soon as Catherine brought the SUV to a complete stop in front of the large, mansion-like house, Grissom awoke.  He looked around, realized where they were, and rubbed his eyes.  Catherine went around to the back to get her kit, and Grissom soon joined her, grabbing his own case.

They walked toward the front porch, noticing the two uniformed police officers standing there, glancing warily through the open front door and into the house.  The lights from the two cruisers bathed everything in alternating palettes of blue and red.

"Are you up to this?" Catherine asked him, imagining the grisly tableau that might greet them inside.

He swallowed hard, trying to subdue the rebellious shivering of his body before replying, "I have to be."

They stepped across the threshold—Grissom first, followed half a step behind by Catherine—and then froze as the impact of the horrific scene hit them.  They could sense each other's breath catch for a few seconds, as they looked around the large living room, wide-eyed.  Despite their combined thirty-five years of experience investigating crimes, neither of them had ever seen anything quite like this before.  Every visible surface on the walls and floor was covered with blood.  The blood patterns were varied and located at all heights along the walls.  The floors held a combination of splatter, drying pools of blood with broad, rounded edges, and other smudges.  One particular bare, formerly white wall now resembled an abstract canvas—a grotesque, twisted work of art painted with someone's life's blood.  It reminded Grissom of the Collins house where four out of six members of the family were stabbed to death two years ago.  But this was much, much worse.

As they moved a little closer to the center of the room, the sharp, coppery tang of the blood hung heavily in the air; it even penetrated Grissom's clogged nostrils.  They shared a look, and simultaneously placed their field kits carefully on the floor, opened them, and pulled out paper shoe covers.  Once they slipped these protective layers on, they walked further into the space.

"This blood has _got_ to be from more than one person," Grissom said, the words almost a whisper as he tried to fathom the shocking scene around them.

"Oh, yeah," Catherine replied, her voice as wispy as his.  "Only eight pints of blood in the human body."

"How many do you think?"

"I have no idea.  And these blood patterns are strange.  I can't tell if we're looking at splatter from a stabbing, a shooting, or something else."  After another awed glance around the room, she added, "Brass said the body was in the master bedroom.  Let's do a walk-through first so we can see what we're dealing with.  We can start collecting when the others get here."

"Okay," he agreed, and they headed off to the left to examine what awaited them in that direction.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

By the time Sara and Greg arrived about fifteen minutes later, Grissom and Catherine had quickly swept the rest of the house.  Three of the four bedrooms looked like mini-versions of the living room—blood-splattered in a similar way.  The only visible corpse had been in the largest bedroom, just as Brass had told Catherine.  It was a young woman, who had apparently died from stab wounds.  They had found several knife entries on her body, and her throat had also been slit, but Grissom and Catherine had been puzzled by the small amount of blood found on her.  With such injuries, she should have been drenched with the red stickiness.

The remaining areas in the house—the dining room, three bathrooms, office, and connected garage—seemed basically untouched.  The two investigators had discovered several bloody shoeprints in the kitchen, leading toward the sliding glass door and patio beyond, but had not had a chance to follow the killer's path to see where it went.

Catherine took the lead and addressed the others, "All right, Grissom and I will take this room and the kitchen.  Sara, can you and Greg take the master bedroom where the body is?"

Sara exchanged a look with Greg.  He seemed hesitant, but he gulped, braced himself, and then nodded slowly.  "Sure, Catherine," Sara replied.

"Great.  When you're done with the body, call in the coroner and then continue working the room."

"You got it.  Come on, Greg," she said, grabbing his arm.

"Grissom, why don't you go in the kitchen and process those shoeprints?" Catherine suggested, trying to give him the least strenuous thing to do.  "Then see if they lead anywhere.  I'll start on the walls."

He nodded, then picked up his kit and headed for the kitchen.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

When Grissom returned to the living room, he was amazed at the amount of work Catherine had already done.  She had made educated guesses as to the borders of each separate bloodstain on all the walls, and had labeled them numerically using painter's tape; she had gotten as high as number thirty.  She had also photographed all the marked blood patterns, and even drawn a rough sketch of the room, indicating the locations of them all.  She had been just about to start collecting the samples when Grissom walked back in.

"I photographed the prints—looks like a sneaker of some kind, ballpark size eleven," he explained.  "I took samples of the blood, then I followed the prints outside.  Nothing visible on the patio or the walkway.  Also nothing in the garbage cans or in the immediate yard.  There was no sign of the murder weapon.  The only thing I _did find was a small, smudged bit of blood on the handle of the sliding glass door.  It was a partial fingerprint—there was some ridge detail, but not enough to lift it.  It seems our killer left through the kitchen."_

"But how did he get in?" she asked, looking toward the entranceway.

"There was no sign of forced entry, so I'll print the doorknob.  One of the victims may have let him in, so I'll also check the doorbell."

That was something she never would have thought of.  _He's good_, she reminded herself.  Even with his brain muddled by fever and exhaustion, Grissom didn't miss a beat.  They all sometimes forgot or took for granted his natural deductive skills and insightful thought processes.

"Whoever did this," she began, indicating the splattered room, "would have gotten blood all over themselves—their hands, their clothes, everything."

"Right," he agreed.  "But so far we've seen no evidence that he discarded his soiled clothes here."  Something occurred to him, and he added, "We should examine all the sinks in the house.  He may have washed up somewhere in here before leaving."

"Good idea," she said.  "If you'll start cataloging this blood when you're done with the door, I'll go do that and check on Sara and Greg while I'm at it."

"Sure."  He carried his kit over to the front door, and opened the top, taking out his fingerprint powder and brush.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	4. Collecting

**A/N:  As always, I need to thank all my loyal reviewers.  Your kind words are truly appreciated.  I hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

**Chapter 4:  Collecting**

Two long hours had dragged by when Catherine came back to the living room.  Grissom had worked his way around the room, and was collecting blood sample number thirty from the last wall.  Catherine watched as he meticulously swabbed the area, clicked the protective cover into place, and slipped the swab into a narrow box.  He seemed to be doing his job as always, but inside she knew he was fighting just to stay focused and upright.

He had been working constantly all this time without a complaint or a break.  Even though Grissom was technically the supervisor, he considered himself part of the team; since they were working, he was working.  He didn't even consider giving himself special treatment because he was sick.

As he pulled out a Sharpie to label the last box, Catherine noticed that he blinked hard, several times, before he was able to write in the space on the small cardboard.  She knew that if his hands had been free, he would have been rubbing his obviously burning and blurry eyes again.

Sara had come up behind Catherine quietly, and had witnessed the same display as the older woman.  "He's _so_ tired," Sara commented, verbalizing what they both were thinking.  "I don't know how he's still going."

"Me either," Catherine agreed.  "I really want to get him out of here, but there's just so much that still has to be done."

At that moment, Grissom felt a sudden tickle in his throat that he couldn't resist.  He turned away from the evidence-spattered wall, and coughed into his jacket sleeve until the sensation passed.  Then, since he had finished with the walls, he moved his attention to beginning work on the floor.

"He needs a break and some fluids," Catherine told Sara.  "Do you have any more water in your truck?"

She nodded.  "I've got a few bottles left.  I'll run out and grab a couple."

They both still had their gazes locked on Grissom.  "Why don't you take him with you?" Catherine suggested.  "I'm sure he could use some air, too."

"Sure.  Hey, Grissom?" she called over to him.

He looked up, noticing the two women for the first time, then stood, wincing at the soreness in his stressed muscles.

"Come over here for a minute," Sara continued.

"Make sure he takes these," Catherine said, handing Sara two capsules.

Grissom now stood beside the women.  "We're going to step outside," Sara informed him.

Silently grateful for the break, he slipped off his shoe covers and gloves, and followed Sara into the early morning air.

"Working hard in that living room, huh?" she asked.

"Yeah," he responded, passing a hand over his eyes, "but I got the walls finished."  He grabbed some tissues from his pocket and faced away from Sara as he sneezed a few times and then began coughing until his throat was clear.

When it was over, Sara offered, "Bless you."

"Thanks," he murmured through the tissue still covering his mouth.

It was clear that he wasn't any better.  What amazed Sara was that the whole time they had been working in the house, she had heard hardly any sign of Grissom's illness—no sneezing, coughing, or anything—until the very end when she and Catherine were watching him.  Now that they had crossed the yellow crime scene tape, though, the physical effects of his illness had become completely obvious; he just had that little fit of sneezing and coughing, and he had been shaking with chills since they had moved out of the climate-controlled interior of the house.  The only explanation Sara could think of for this was pure willpower.  Grissom knew how important the evidence was, and he hadn't wanted to contaminate anything with his own DNA, so he had somehow forced his body to cooperate.  But now Sara could tell he wouldn't be able to keep it up much longer.

"Thirsty?" she asked him, pulling a bottle of water out of the case in her back seat.

"Yeah, thanks," he said.

She handed him the medicine.  "Catherine said you should take these."

He swallowed them with a gulp of water.

"Do you want to sit in the car for a while?" she wondered.  "I can turn on the heat."

"I'll sit," he told her, "but don't worry about the heat.  Even though I'm cold, the fresh air is a nice change."

"Anything's better than that smell in there," Sara agreed, smiling.

Grissom nodded.  Although they were outside, he still felt like the thick metallic smell of the blood was clinging to him and his clothes.  Thinking about the unpleasant odor pervading the house caused his stomach to lurch uncomfortably, and he tried to put it out of his mind.

Sara opened the passenger door of her SUV, and Grissom settled himself into the seat, exhaling in relief as he finally relaxed his sore body.  He positioned himself sideways—his shoulder leaning on the seatback, his legs out the open door, his feet resting on the running board.  Sara stood in front of him, noticing how dulled his eyes were as he met her gaze.

"You must be pretty achy all over, huh?  And wiped out."

"You have no idea," he replied, the distress evident in his hushed voice.  He took another drink of the water.

"And this stubborn fever isn't going away," she added sympathetically.

"Doesn't seem to be."

"Can I check?" she asked gently.

"I guess so."

She moved closer to him, extending a hand toward his face.  She brushed the backs of her fingers lightly against his forehead, and he closed his eyes reflexively—her touch was pleasantly cool on his heated skin.  Sara turned her hands around, palms out, and placed them gently on his cheeks, then slowly slid them down his neck.

"You're hot," she said.

He opened his eyes and raised a curious brow at her.

"Your temperature," she explained, playfully alleviating any confusion over the meaning of her words.  "It's at least as high as it was this afternoon—probably higher.  That's not good, Grissom."

"Nothing I can do about it," he replied tiredly.  "I've been taking all the fever reducers Catherine's been giving me."

"There's something _we_ can do about it," she pointed out.  "We can get you home and into bed where you belong, so you can rest and then you'll recover much more quickly."

"I can't just leave, Sara.  There's too much work to be done.  You three can't handle it all."

"You're pushing yourself too hard."

"We don't have a choice right now."

Giving up the fruitless argument, Sara stood there silently until he sneezed, carefully into a tissue, once again.  Then she muttered, "Bless you."

"Thanks," he replied, blowing his nose.  After one more gulp of water, he added, "I guess we should get back to work."

Nodding, Sara took his arm and helped him out of the Yukon.  Right as they reached the open front door, he turned to her and offered, "Sara, I just want to say… thank you…for your concern."

"Just trying to help, Grissom."

"I know," he assured her, giving her hand a squeeze before they crossed the threshold back into the blood-soaked crime scene.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom and Catherine were processing the living room floor.  They had sketched and photographed the different blood spatters and patterns, and were taking swabs of everything as well.  Luckily the floor was lacquered hardwood and not carpeting, which made their collecting a good deal easier.

Catherine had noticed that, over the past hour, it had become impossible for Grissom to concentrate.  He would catalog something, then his attention would drift upward and he would stare into space or at a spot on one of the walls.  After a few seconds, he would shake his head and go back to what he had been doing with the evidence.  She realized that no matter how much remained to be done, she needed to get him out of here now.  "Grissom?" she called softly, and although he was right next to her, he didn't seem to hear her.  "Grissom?"  She touched his arm and gave him a little shake.  "Hey?"

She watched him come back to the situation at hand.  As the glazed veil lifted, his fatigue-faded blue eyes met hers.

"Pack up," she instructed.  "We're getting out of here."

He looked around, trying to see if he had completed the collecting without realizing it.  His expression pointed out the obviously unfinished job on the surface around them.

"You're done, Gil," she began.  "I know that _we_ aren't finished, but you've done as much as you possibly can.  So, get your stuff together."

His first instinct was to argue with her, but he quickly understood that she was right, as she was most of the time.  He had become a hindrance rather than a help to the team.  He could serve them best right now by returning to the lab with Catherine.  "Okay," he agreed quietly, gathering up his things.

Catherine stood and was about to go find Sara when her phone rang.  "Willows…  Hey, Warrick!  How's Nicky?  What's the latest?"  She listened, and seemed to be receiving good news.  "That's great.  So you're taking him home now?  After you get him settled we need you at this scene…  Yeah, call Brass and he'll give you the details…  Send Nicky our best…  Okay, bye."

"Nick's all right?" Grissom asked, clarifying the half of the conversation he had overheard.

"Yeah, it's just a bad sprain.  He'll have to stay off his foot for a few days, but he'll be fine."

"Glad to hear it."

"I asked Warrick to come out here to help finish with all the evidence."

"Good," Grissom replied.

"I'm gonna go fill Sara in, and then we're out of here."

He nodded, almost too tired to even form words any longer.

Catherine informed Sara about Nick's condition, and then told her to send Greg back to the lab once Warrick arrived.  They would need him there to start the huge amount of processing.

"Are you taking Grissom home?" Sara asked.

"I wish I could," Catherine answered, exhaling impatiently.  "But we've got all this evidence that has to get to the lab."  She held up the bags of stuff Sara and Greg had collected and handed off to her.  "Plus what Grissom and I amassed.  This case is hot, we've got two others ongoing, and we're still gonna be short-handed, so Grissom can't go home yet."

"Just make sure he gets some rest," Sara said.  "Even if you have to stash him in Brass's office again."  She smiled.

Catherine smiled back.  "Don't worry, I'll take care of him.  See you later."

She walked back into the living room, and stowed Sara and Greg's swabs and bindles in her bag.  She noticed that everything had been packed up and squared away, and Grissom was standing next to the door, kit in hand.

"Let's go," she instructed, and he followed her outside.

Catherine loaded their evidence-filled kits into the rear, then opened the passenger door for Grissom.  The seatback was still reclined, and he climbed in and got settled.  It was obvious to both of them that he would be catching another short nap on the way back to the lab.  Catherine could tell that he could barely keep his eyes open.  He knew that she was very tired also.  And although he felt bad that he wouldn't be keeping her company on the ride, and that he would be resting while she had to stay alert, he had no choice but to give in to what his ailing, overtaxed body required right now.

Catherine grabbed the blanket she always kept in the back and covered him with it.  "There you go," she said.

"Thanks, Cath," he replied, meeting her eyes.

"You're welcome."  She closed his door and then went around to the driver's side.  She got in, started the Denali, turned on some heat for Grissom, and pulled away from the house.

*                                                                     *                                                                                   *                      *                                                                       *                                                                                   *                      *

She had been driving for about ten minutes, and had looked over at Grissom at least once during each of those minutes.  Catherine had not been at all surprised that he had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the cushioned seatback.

From what she could hear over the hum of the engine, his breathing sounded freer.  She thought that maybe the medicine had finally helped.  She had switched to something different for his last dose—an over-the-counter flu product that contained a combination of ingredients.  Maybe she had finally chosen something that had worked to relieve his symptoms.  She just hoped it would have a positive effect on his fever, too.  That's what worried her the most.

_At first, Grissom floated contentedly in the darkness.  His body and his focus were completely spent, and he relished the opportunity to sleep without thoughts or images invading his mind.  But, without warning, the soft and welcoming blackness contorted into something else, something no longer comfortable and inviting, but ominous and overpowering.  Torrid spatters of red, with harsh, rough edges swirled all around him; he couldn't escape them.  Everywhere he turned, behind his closed lids he saw flickers of burning red, and they seared into his eyes, causing him to squeeze them closed even tighter.  He was soon surrounded by the redness, and he realized the patterns were blood stains—like at the house they had just left.  The weaving, tidal wave of blood closed in on him, suffocating, smothering, and he began to panic as he realized he couldn't breathe…_

Catherine's head snapped toward him as she heard a strangled gasp escape from his throat.  She noticed that his breathing had inexplicably become rapid and shallow all of a sudden.

Her entire body tensed with concern as she attempted to keep her attention on him and the road at the same time.  "Gil?" she called loudly, reaching over to shake him out of the grip of the nightmare.  But her fingers only barely brushed his arm.  He was leaning away from her, and she was unable to stretch any further while still keeping one hand on the steering wheel.

_The choking feeling of the blood around him lifted slightly, but before he could relax, the intense scent of the impossible amount of blood assailed him.  The thick odor was ten times stronger than it had been at the crime scene; it was like endless sheets of freshly-cut copper—the sour metallic tang overwhelmingly filling the air.  He felt his stomach start to churn in reaction to the smell, as he fought his way out of the grasp of the sensory assault..._

Catherine had been deciding whether or not to stop the car, when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grissom sit bolt upright in the seat next to her.  He blinked and looked around, seemingly unsure of where he was.

"Gil, you okay?" she asked breathlessly.

Before he could answer, his mind suddenly caught up with his body.  He registered the horribly unpleasant and uncontrollable waves of nausea roiling up from his stomach, and he struggled to keep everything down just a little longer.  He reached out and shakily touched Catherine's arm.  He was almost afraid to open his mouth to speak, but he managed, "Catherine, you need to pull over…_please."_

She glanced at him, saw that he had broken out in a sweat, and knew immediately why he had made that desperate plea.  "All right, just hang on, Grissom," she said.  She tried to merge to the right, but cut the wheel back when she noticed a vehicle in her blind spot.  "Damn!" she cried.  Then she added more calmly, "Just hold on, I'll get over as soon as I can."  As soon as the offending car had sped away, she moved first into the rightmost lane, and then smoothly slowed onto a flat portion of the shoulder.

The instant they stopped moving, Grissom had flung off the blanket and had the car door open.  He started to stagger away from the Yukon and toward the nearby shrubs, but his legs felt unsteady and weak, and he knew he wouldn't get very far anyway.  Sliding his hand along the hood of the SUV for support, he made it as far as the front bumper before the contents of his stomach made an unbidden return trip, and began spilling out onto the surface of the roadside.

Catherine had jumped out as quickly as she could, but she didn't make it to Grissom's side in time.  She circled around the front of the car, giving him a wide berth so she didn't get accidentally splattered, and then came up behind him.

When his stomach was completely empty once again, he spit to clear his mouth and then wiped the back of his hand across his chin.

"Are you all right?" she asked, gently rubbing his shoulder.  She was glad that all he'd had to eat in recent memory was some soup and a few crackers—it had meant there was less for his stomach to reject.

He nodded in response to her question.  He was still doubled over, leaning on the corner of the hood.

"Don't move," she instructed.  "I'll find something you can use to clean up."

She rummaged around in the rear of the SUV and finally found the container of Wet Ones she kept there—mainly for Lindsey, since it's almost impossible for a child to stay spotless all the time.  She pulled a couple of the small, moistened towels out and went back to Grissom.  She passed them to him.

"Thanks," he muttered, as he wiped his face and then his hand.  As he finished with the towel, he straightened up and said, his voice soft, "Cath, I'm sorry."

She looked at him, confused.  _What could he possibly be apologizing for?  Certainly not for being sick_, she wondered silently, slight annoyance creeping into her thoughts.  _Like he has any control over that.  Then she saw the answer clearly on his wan, pained face.  He was apologizing for the trouble and unpleasantness he thought this was causing her.  _Why did he insist on believing that caring about him and helping him was a chore?_  She tried to reassure him that it wasn't—not at all.  "What, for this?" she asked, indicating the mess on the ground.  "I have an eight-year-old, Gil, this is nothing."  She paused, then injected levity into her tone as she continued, "Although my daughter _does_ have better aim than you."  She smiled.  "But at least you waited until you got out of the car.  I know this is new, but the interior's already been detailed once thanks to Lindsey and a badly-timed combination of cotton candy and corn dogs."_

He almost smiled at her in return, and she felt satisfied that she had made him feel at least a little better.

She studied him as he stood there, silhouetted against the bright headlights, and frowned as her eyes traced down his legs.  "I think you got your pants," she said, squatting down next to him.  She dabbed at the small spots just above his shoes with a fresh Wet One, but she knew that wouldn't completely get them out.  "Do you have a spare set of clothes in your locker at work?" she asked, standing up again.

"Yeah, I think so," he replied.

"Good," she said.  "So let's get going.  Ready?"

He assessed the sensations in his uneasy stomach, and then nodded.

She helped him back into the car through the still-open passenger door.

He laid back and closed his eyes, but as the Denali rumbled to life and they headed to the lab, he didn't think sleep would come this time.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	5. Dazed

**A/N:  I know this chapter is quite short, but I will post the next one very soon to (hopefully) make up for it.  I had wanted to keep this brief section separate from what happens next.  I am so grateful to everyone who keeps reviewing this story, especially to those of you who have come back and reviewed it multiple times!  Thank you so much!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 5:  Dazed**

They got back to CSI and Catherine left him in the locker room to change while she dropped off the boatload of evidence at DNA and Trace to wait for Greg's return.

Grissom sat on the bench and stared into his locker for several long minutes.  He was entirely drained, his head was spinning, and everything hurt.  And his stomach, although hollowly empty, still felt queasy.  He finally forced himself up, found a clean pair of pants, and took them into the back room with the toothbrush and toothpaste he was glad he always kept in his locker.  He changed and brushed his teeth, and by then Catherine had returned to get him.

She dragged him over to Brass's office to give the police captain an update.  On the way there, she explained to Grissom how one of the daytime technicians had agreed to start on some things until Greg got back because she currently had a very light caseload.  Then Catherine's beeper went off, letting her know that Dr. Robbins was ready with the preliminary autopsy of the woman they had found in the blood-filled house.  She told Grissom about this as they reached the entrance to police headquarters, and he just nodded.  He hadn't uttered a word since they had gotten back into Catherine's SUV on the side of the road.  He looked terrible, and she wanted nothing more than to allow him to lie down on Brass's couch and sleep for several hours.

"Well, here's something useful," Brass informed them as the trio stood in his office.  "We may have an ID on the dead woman.  I checked the tax records, and the listed owner of that house in Henderson is Jessica Rosen, 36.  Don't know if that's our mystery vic, but we have a possible name now, at least.  We'll run her prints to see if she's in any of the databases."

"Thanks, Brass," Catherine said.  "We've got a ton of evidence to sort through.  Maybe it'll tell us more about her."

Brass nodded, then squinted at the silent, subdued Grissom, looking him up and down.  The scientist's attention seemed focused on a spot on the far wall.  "Gil?" he called.  "Hey, Gil?"  He turned to Catherine, concerned.  "What's with him?"

She touched Grissom's arm to bring his awareness back to her and Brass.  "He's just completely exhausted, Jim," she explained.  "I hate to ask this again, but can he sack out on the sofa for a while?"

Grissom was now looking at Jim, his eyes heavy-lidded and glazed; he rubbed a hand over them.  "I'm sorry, Jim, did you say something?"

"Not feeling any better, Gil?" the captain asked.

"Not really," Grissom admitted.

And based on how he looked, Brass understood.

Then Grissom pulled a handful of tissues out of his pocket and sneezed three times, which also started him coughing.

"Bless you," Brass began before addressing the other CSI.  "Why don't you just take him home, Catherine?  We don't need him here that badly, do we?"

"I'm afraid we do, Jim.  I'd be the first one to get him out of here if I could, but we're short-handed without Nicky and we've got all that evidence—with more coming as soon as Sara and Warrick finish collecting.  We need Grissom here."  After a pause, she went on, "But _he_ needs to sleep—at least for a while.  So, can we use the couch?"

Brass smiled.  "Sure.  Use my office as long as you need to, pal," he told Grissom.  "I'll just set up shop in one of the conference rooms again."  He began gathering up some important things from his desk and tossing them into his briefcase.

Catherine turned to Grissom.  "Why don't you go stretch out?"

He took off his gray suede jacket, which he had swapped the "FORENSICS" windbreaker for, hung it up, and sat on the couch while he removed his shoes.

"Do you need anything?" she asked him, handing over the pillow and blanket Brass had returned to the closet earlier.

"I don't think so," came his tired reply.

As Brass moved toward the door, Catherine stopped him.  "Could you get him something to drink before you go?" she requested.

"Yeah, I'll be right back," he promised.  Only a minute or so passed until he came back, carrying a bottle of water.  "Here you go," he said, handing her the bottle.  "I'll put a 'do not disturb' order on my office again.  Use it as long as you need."

"Thanks, Jim," Catherine replied.

"I'll see you later," he called over to Grissom.

"Thanks, Jim," Grissom repeated, adjusting the pillow.  Catherine gave him the water and he cracked it open and drank some.  Then he placed it on the floor next to the couch and lay down.

Catherine covered him with the blanket, tucking it in in the right spots to make him comfortable.  "Sleep," was all she said, leaning over and running a hand through his hair.

He closed his eyes and nodded, pulling the blanket tightly around him and trying to relax.

She darkened the room, shut the lights, and locked the door behind her as she headed to see Dr. Robbins and their female victim.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine was in the lab with Greg, discussing the DNA results they had at this point.  All the blood he had tested so far belonged to the female vic.  They still weren't sure if she was Jessica Rosen, the listed owner of the house where she'd been found.  Greg was about to start on the next batch of blood samples when Sara and Warrick came in, toting a huge quantity of swabs and evidence bags, and looking worn out.

"How'd it go, guys?" Catherine asked them.

"I think we got it all," Warrick replied in a weary voice.

As Greg started sorting and separating the new set of swabs, Catherine glanced around at her tired team.  "Why don't we all take a break, guys?" she suggested.  "I know we can all use one."  Catherine was automatically taking over, her unofficial "second-in-command" position bumped up a notch with Grissom out of it.  "I'll order some food.  Does Chinese sound all right?"

Everyone agreed rather enthusiastically to the thought of sustenance, and the boys went off in opposite directions, hoping to take advantage of the few minutes' pause until the food arrived.  "Is Grissom in Brass's office?" Sara asked Catherine.

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

Catherine looked at her watch.  "Nearly three hours."

"Is it all right…" Sara began, then stopped, hesitant to continue.  She started over, asking almost sheepishly, "Can I go look in on him?"

Catherine understood her motivations, and smiled.  "Sure.  Here are the keys.  We locked it up tight."

Grinning, Sara grabbed the small key ring.  "I'll be right back," she assured.  "Order me something vegetarian, and don't forget something for Grissom."  She walked quickly down the hall and outside.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	6. Nightmare

**A/N:   Here's the next chapter, added quickly as promised ****J  I realize that this one isn't much longer than the last, but I promise there are more lengthy chapters to come.  This chapter turns more G/S 'friendly' and really shows more of the direction that the rest of the story is headed.  I hope everyone enjoys it!  Thanks, as always, to all the readers who have left me such nice reviews!  Every single one of them is truly appreciated ****J  Read on!**

**Chapter 6:  Nightmare**

Sara slid the key into the lock, turned the knob, and pushed the door open carefully.  The first thing she realized was that there were disconcerting noises coming from inside the room.  She had expected only silence, or at the most, soft breathing, so she was briefly shocked.  The second thing she realized, which caused her heart to start pounding, was that the noises were coming from Grissom—he was crying out in his sleep.  She had never heard his voice sound like that—breathless, trembling, tinged with fear.  She couldn't make out everything he was mumbling, but what she got was something like, "There's another one…" and "Blood…" over and over again.  In between, he kept gasping, "No…" as if fending off some invisible enemy or witnessing something horrible that he couldn't stop.

Sara reached for the light switch and flipped it on.  What she saw in the bright illumination was Grissom thrashing around on the sofa, his arms out protectively in front of him.  The blanket was crumpled on the floor, and he was drenched in sweat.  Rivulets and drops ran down his face, his hair was saturated, making each curly lock more obvious, and his wet shirt clung to him as he moved about.

Panic-stricken at what he was going through, she rushed to his side, sitting on the edge of the couch.  "Grissom!" she called loudly, unsure at first whether to touch him.  She thought she had read somewhere that waking someone out of a nightmare could be dangerous—if you touched them, they could hurt you or themselves unintentionally.  But right now that didn't seem to make sense, and she was so freaked out over Grissom's behavior that she couldn't even be sure if she had read that at all.  So she grabbed his arms gently, holding them by his sides, and tried to speak calmly, "Grissom, it's me, Sara.  It's all right.  Everything's all right.  You're fine.  Grissom, wake up."

He stopped thrashing, but his eyes remained tightly closed and his frightened ramblings continued.

Sara kept talking to him, repeating her words from before, using them as a soothing mantra to free him from the hold of the nightmare, "Shh, shh, Grissom, it's all right.  It's just a dream.  It's all right.  It's all right."

Then he surprised her by suddenly shooting up into a sitting position, causing her to drop her hands from his arms.  His eyes snapped open and he stared at her, but she knew he wasn't really seeing her.  It was like he was looking right_ through_ her, the haunting scenes still filling his mind and vision.

The confused look on his face and his blank eyes scared her; he seemed to be caught in some dark, horrible place halfway between sleep and wakefulness.  But what scared her even more was the incredible heat she felt radiating off his body as he sat mere inches in front of her.  Without even making contact with his skin she knew his body temperature had skyrocketed, and she was concerned he might need medical attention.  She had heard about fever dreams—how they were almost like hallucinations, so real to the person experiencing them.  She was considering whether to call Catherine or the paramedics, when Grissom blinked and his eyes changed.  And what Sara saw reflected in those revealing blue depths froze her to her soul—it was fear.

"Grissom," she said to him, now that he was really with her, "it was only a dream.  It's over now."

"Sara," he breathed shakily, sounding completely unlike himself.  He grabbed onto her and buried his head in her shoulder.

She was shocked into inaction at first, not knowing what to do.  But he held on tight, and she could feel his body shaking—from more than just a chill this time—and his heart racing, as his sweat and extreme warmth soaked into her.

_God, Grissom, you're on fire_, she thought, worried about his health, but still not reacting to his unexpected, desperate embrace.  She was still uncertain of what she should do.  Then she realized how much he needed her right now, and she couldn't let him down.  She couldn't deny him the physical connection and security he needed at this moment, no matter how he might feel about it later.

She could still see the look on his face when he had come back from the nightmare, and that scared her more than anything else so far, because she had seen Grissom in the throes of many strong emotions over the years—frustration, anger, sorrow—but never like this.  She realized that she had never seen him afraid before.  Maybe a little when she had volunteered against his wishes to play decoy for the FBI during the "Strip Strangler" case a few years back, but then he had covered his fear for her safety with anger.

Now, though, now was very different.  The emotion she had seen in his haunted eyes, mirrored on his drawn face, was nothing short of pure, unadulterated terror.  He was completely terrified.  Of what, Sara didn't know, but whatever it was she wanted to rid him of it—banish the demons, protect him, make him feel safe, and never let them hurt him again.

So slowly, she wrapped her arms around his trembling back and held him to her.  He tightened his grip even more, and she moved a hand to the back of his head, gently stroking his wet hair.  She wanted to comfort him as much as she could, with her touch as well as her words.  The need to protect him and take care of him nearly overwhelmed her as she turned slightly and laid her cheek against his sodden curls, tasting the salt on her lips as she soothed quietly, "Shh…shh…  It's okay.  It's okay…"  She almost said "baby," but stopped herself before the word slipped out.  "…Grissom.  I'm here.  I'm right here.  You're safe now."

They held on tightly for a long while in silence, rocking as one on the couch.  Eventually, she felt his breathing and heart rate slow back to normal.  She waited for him to let go first, knowing that he would only do so when he was ready.  Finally, she felt his grip loosen and he sat back.  Her hands lingered on his arms for a few seconds longer before she dropped them to her side.

He shifted away from her, sliding his legs off the sofa, and leaned forward, lowering his damp face into his hands.  Most of the sweat had evaporated off his body as his shivering had intensified.

Sara waited, a bit impatiently, for him to say something.  Then he took a deep, shuddering breath, dropped his hands, and turned to look at her.  He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it without uttering a word.  He averted his eyes from her intense, concerned stare for a minute, but felt her warm brown gaze drawing his view back to her face.

He finally coaxed the words from his throat and began, "Sara, I'm so…"

"I swear, Grissom," she blurted, cutting him off, "if you apologize for one more thing, I'm going to punch you out."

His eyes widened as he was shocked back into silence, but the lightness in her voice matched the smile on her lips, and he knew it wasn't a serious threat.

She seemed to be waiting for him to smile in return, and when he didn't, she said solemnly, "Listen…do you want to talk about it?"

Fresh fear flickered across his face and he shook his head.

"It's all right," she assured him, placing her hand on his forearm.  "You don't have to say anything.  But I want you to know that whenever you're ready to talk, I'll be here to listen."

"Thanks, Sara," he said.  "I really appreciate it."  He paused, trying to gather courage for what he had to say next.  "I just hope that I…that I didn't…do anything to make you feel…uncomfortable."  He glanced away.

"Never," she replied firmly.  And she meant it, although at the moment she was very worried about him and it was hard to concentrate on anything else.

At that single heartfelt word from her, he finally did grant her a weak half-smile.  But then an especially strong shiver wracked his body, and Sara's concern grew even more.  She knew she should get him moving.  "Why don't you go into the bathroom and clean up a bit?" she suggested.  "Splash some cold water on your face, or whatever you need to do.  Then we'll go back to CSI and you can get into a dry shirt."

She stood, and then slowly helped him up.  He swayed a little dizzily at first, so she kept a grip on his arm until he became steadier on his feet.  "You all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered, but she thought she should walk with him, just in case.  So she accompanied him across the hall to the door of the nearby men's room, and then went back into Brass's office.  She picked up the blanket, folded it, and draped it over the arm of the sofa as she awaited his return.  She didn't know exactly what to do to help him, but she hoped she would figure it out soon.

When he came back, he didn't look all that much better, but he had stopped sweating—only his hair and his shirt were still somewhat wet.  Sara handed him his jacket, which he put on and zipped up to the collar, and grabbed his open bottle of water off the floor.  She made sure to lock Brass's door as they left and headed outside.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	7. Fear

**A/N:   Here's the latest chapter.  It's a little longer than the last two, and I hope that will make everyone happy.  Please read it and please review, if you feel it's worthy.  All of your kind words and support so far are very much appreciated!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 7:  Fear**

After stopping by the locker room where Grissom quickly changed his shirt and ran a brush through his drying, disheveled hair, Sara walked with him down the hall of the criminalistics building, catching a glimpse of the rest of the team through the glass walls of the break room.  They were all seated around the long table, eating and talking.  When Catherine saw them, she got up right away and stepped into the hall.  "Where have you been?" she asked Sara, concern evident on her face.  "You were gone for a long time."

"Yeah, it took longer than I thought," Sara replied.

Catherine had been more than a little surprised to see Grissom with her.  She had hoped he would still be asleep.  He didn't look well-rested at all.  In fact, he looked worse than before, which was hard from Catherine to fathom.  How could he not be even slightly better by now?  She had thought they had been helping him, but maybe they had done him more harm than good.

Catherine looked up at his face, which was pale, with dusky smudges obvious under his eyes.  "Weren't you able to get any sleep at all?" she asked him.

"I think I slept a little," he answered.  "But then I had…"  He groped for the word to use.  He would feel foolish saying "nightmare," and "bad dream" was too childish, so he finished simply with just, "…a dream."

Catherine knew exactly what he meant and exactly what kind of dream it must have been.  If she had had any doubt, the shadows of fear lingering in his eyes would have made her certain.

He shivered violently, and Catherine guided him into the break room.  "Come on, let me get you something warm.  I boiled water for tea."  She sat him down next to Warrick, poured hot water into a mug, then dropped in a tea bag.  "Drink this," she said, placing the steaming cup in front of him.  She moved her hand up to squeeze his shoulder, surreptitiously placing the backs of her fingers to his neck to check the progress of his fever, frowning at the high level of heat she felt.  She glanced over at Sara, who was kneeling down to put Grissom's half-full bottle of water in the mini-refrigerator.  The dark-haired woman was staring at Grissom as he disinterestedly played with the tea bag in his mug, but after a moment Catherine caught her eye.  "Drink it, Gil," Catherine told him, keeping her gaze locked with Sara's.  "It'll help.  Warrick, why don't you and Greg fill Grissom in on where we are with the case?"

"Sure, Cath," Warrick began.  He turned to the older man.  "First of all, how are you doing, boss?"  The news of Grissom's illness had spread quickly to the rest of the team.

"I've been better," he answered honestly, sipping the tea.  The warm liquid soothed his irritated throat and seemed to calm his still-jumpy stomach, so he tried a larger swallow.  "So, did we get anywhere with the blood?"

"Glad you asked," Greg replied, a huge grin spreading over his face.  "So far, most of the blood matches our female vic.  But Jo-Ann from days just analyzed a batch that contained unknown DNA—from a male."

Grissom's mood picked up a bit at this, and he waited for the young technician to continue.

While the guys talked, Catherine had ushered Sara into the hallway and they were now on their way to Grissom's office where Catherine had stashed the remaining supplies from the drug store.  As soon as they had stepped out of the break room, Catherine had watched Sara's façade of normalcy crack and her intense distress show through.  "So what happened in Brass's office with Grissom?" Catherine asked.

"Nothing," she replied, walking faster.

"Nothing?"

The younger woman stopped abruptly and turned to face her colleague.  "He seriously scared the hell out of me, Catherine."

"Why?  What happened?"

Sara expelled a breath, trying to figure out where to start.  Catherine took her arm and led her into Grissom's office where they sat down on the chairs in front of his desk, facing each other.

After a moment of fiddling with her hands, Sara looked up and began slowly, "As soon as I opened the door, I heard him.  He was…calling out in his sleep.  I turned on the light and tried to wake him.  It didn't work right away.  He was soaked in sweat, Catherine, _soaked.  I could _feel_ the heat coming off him.  I almost called an ambulance, but then he sat up all of a sudden.  He was confused and he didn't seem to see me until…until…"_

She had to stop for a few minutes to gather her thoughts and distance herself just a little from the emotional memories.  "Once he really woke up and looked at me, I saw something on his face.  It was fear, Catherine.  Grissom was completely terrified.  And seeing him like that scared me just as much.  He grabbed onto me—_so tightly.  It was like he didn't want to let go.  I wasn't sure what to do.  I wanted to help him, but I didn't know how."_

"What_ did_ you do?" Catherine asked, even though she suspected the answer.

"What did I do?" Sara repeated.  "What _could_ I do?  I just…held him until he calmed down.  I held him and talked to him, trying to comfort him, even though my heart was pounding just as hard.  I've never seen him like that before, Catherine, so…vulnerable.  It was frightening."

"I know.  We're so used to him hiding his feelings, keeping them deep inside, that when we _do get a glimpse of what he's going through, it's…scary.  Just like you said."  She turned silent for a minute, thinking, and when she spoke again, her voice held a hint of regret, "You know, I think we forget sometimes how much Gil __does feel.  Sometimes I think he feels even more than the rest of us.  He just hides it well.  He thinks because he's the boss, the supervisor, he _has_ to hide it, to set an example for the rest of us.  It should be about only the evidence, not our emotions._

"But then we forget _why_ Grissom acts the way he does, and I know we've all said things to him—about him having no feelings or 'personal stuff,' being like a 'robot'—and I know our words have hurt him.  I've seen the pain in his eyes, even though he tried to bury it.  But it still doesn't stop us from continuing to say such horrible things.  We never apologize for what we've said, even when Grissom turns out to be right about everything, which he usually is.  And in spite of that, he just seems to forget about it and then he acts like nothing had even happened.  He treats us the same way as always, with respect and support.  I admire him for that, so much.  But I worry because he keeps everything inside."

Catherine stopped, letting her words hang in the air, as she realized she had drifted quite a bit off topic.  She brought their attention back to what was happening to Grissom now.  "Did he tell you anything about the nightmare, Sara?  About what scared him so much?"

Sara shook her head.  "No, he wouldn't talk about it."

"That's not a surprise."

"Do you think he'd _ever_ be willing to talk about it?  I know it would help.  Do you think we could convince him to tell us?"

"Maybe," Catherine replied, pondering the situation.  Something was beginning to nag at the back of her mind.  This seemed familiar somehow.  "But we can't push him.  He'll only talk to us when he's ready."  Her voice sounded distracted as she tried to grasp onto the distant memory that was tugging at her.

Both women seemed lost in their thoughts for a moment, until Sara broke the silence, "Catherine, have you ever seen Grissom like that?  You know, _really scared?"_

"Not that I remember.  When he was willing to open up to me, I've seen Gil go through a lot of things—many kinds of emotions—but I don't think I've ever seen him truly terrified.  I used to think that nothing scared him.  Well, except maybe for one of the members of his team being in danger or getting hurt.  That would…"  She trailed off, and then jerked as if something had hit her.  Something had connected, and the wispy memory floating through her brain now solidified and came back in almost complete clarity.

"Wait a minute," she said, leaning toward Sara, "I _do remember something.  It was a long time ago, back when I was a rookie.  It was one of my first cases working out in the field with Gil, and we were assigned to a double homicide.  Two women had been discovered in a house, stabbed multiple times.  There was a lot of blood around, I remember."  She stopped as she realized that there was another connection between what happened fifteen years ago and the case they were working on now.  She went on, somewhat amazed at the unexpected correlation she had made, "It's funny, Sara.  I didn't remember it until just now, but there was blood spatter on the walls of that house, too.  Not nearly as much as at the house we worked tonight, but the scene was eerily similar."_

She blinked and shook her head, trying to push back her surprise so she could finish telling Sara the story.  "Anyway, I got a glimpse of the house, but before I could see anything else, I was paged back to the lab.  They needed me to process some stuff because the new lab tech was swamped."  She waved a hand between them.  "It doesn't matter.  So, Grissom began working the case alone, but he told me about it when he got back to the lab.  And he kept filling me in as he started piecing it together.  But it didn't take long until he hit a dead end.  I remember that the case bothered him.  I'm not sure why.  He spent hours studying photos of the crime scene in the layout room.  A couple of days after the discovery of the bodies, I was looking for Grissom.  I knew he hadn't been sleeping very much.  Even only having known Gil a short time, I already realized that he shortchanged himself in the sleep department normally.  But I could tell that he probably hadn't slept for more than a few minutes at a time since the case had started.

"When I finally found him, I was kind of shocked—he was face down on the break room table, fast asleep, with the case file spread out around him.  I came up next to him, planning to wake him—gently—when he suddenly jerked awake by himself.  I'll tell you, Sara, I must have jumped five feet when he did that."  Amusement colored her words and she gave the other woman a grin as she remembered the incident—it seemed a lot funnier now than it had been then.  But Catherine quickly turned serious again, her brow kitting, as she recalled the expression on Grissom's face at that same moment.

"That was it, Sara," she continued.  "That was the only time I ever remember seeing Gil seem so scared.  He woke up and looked at me with utter terror in his eyes.  I asked him what was wrong, but he didn't tell me.  He just gathered up everything and walked out of the room.  He never said any more about it, but I knew he must have been caught up in some awful nightmare.  I remember thinking that he probably had been having nightmares since the case began.  That's why he hadn't been sleeping."

Sara was nodding in agreement, her eyes fixed on the floor.  Then she glanced up to meet Catherine's gaze.  "What ever happened with that case?  Did you catch the guy?"

"No.  We never did," she replied gravely.  "Grissom worked on it for a little while longer, but he finally had to give up.  The case got stored away in the 'unsolved' part of the evidence vault, and eventually I guess Grissom's preoccupation with it got 'stored away,' too.  He got back into the rhythm of regular sleep and working on other cases.  I was never aware of him having such powerful nightmares again, at least none that he told me about."

"Do you think the case we're working now has somehow…reawakened that fear in Gris?  Could his nightmares be related to whatever he went through back then?"

"Maybe," Catherine said, continuing to contemplate the idea.  "This case definitely could have reminded him of the other one.  I just can't believe he has to go through this now.  On top of him being so sick, he can't even rest because he's being plagued by these nightmares."

"Yeah," Sara agreed softly.  "Do you know what the first thing he said to me was, after he finally calmed down?"

"He apologized," Catherine replied knowingly.

"Yeah," Sara repeated, slightly surprised at Catherine's certainty.  Then exasperation crept into her tone.  "Why does he do that?"

Catherine shook her head.  "I'm not sure.  For some reason, he thinks he's causing us trouble."

"But why would he think that?  We know he'd do the same for any of us if the situation were reversed."

"Yeah, _we_ know that," Catherine began.  "But I don't think _he_ realizes that we know that."  She took a breath, trying to put her current theory about Grissom's behavior into words.  "_We_ know that Gil cares about us.  I think he feels that he doesn't show us enough.  So he doesn't understand why we're hovering around him and taking care of him.  He thinks he's not worth it."

"Not worth it?" Sara responded, her voice rising as a rush of anger consumed her.  "Is he crazy?"  She calmed down again almost immediately as quiet worry forced out her irritation.  "He doesn't know how special he is…  How can someone so brilliant be so stupid?"

"Good question," Catherine replied, and then suddenly burst out laughing.  Sara soon joined her, the laughter breaking the tension they were feeling for a few minutes.  This certainly wasn't the first time that a comment like that had been made about Grissom, and it was _so true. _

When their chuckles faded away, Sara pointed out, "Speaking of Grissom, we'd better get back to him."

"Right," Catherine said, suddenly remembering why they had come to Grissom's cluttered office in the first place.  She grabbed a large bottle of pills off his desk.  "We've tried the other fever reducers, and they didn't work.  So why don't we try this ibuprofen?  You said his fever shot up again?"

"Oh, yeah.  He was so hot, Catherine—he was literally burning up."

"I know high fevers are normal with the flu," Catherine began.

"But how high is too high?  I'm worried about the fact that his temperature keeps going up.  When is it time to take him to a doctor or the hospital?"

"I'm not sure," Catherine admitted.  "I mean, I've been through things like this with Lindsey, but it's different with children.  Adults have more of a resistance to high fevers, although at a certain point, it does become dangerous."  After a pause, she added, "I think I'll go find Doc Robbins.  Maybe he can give us some idea of just how sick Gil is and when we should _really_ worry.  I'll see if he or David has a thermometer somewhere—something _besides_ those meat thermometers—so we can find out exactly what we're dealing with."

"All right," Sara said, taking the pills from Catherine's hand.  "I'll go and try to get our 'patient' to eat something."

"Good idea," Catherine replied.  "I got him some soup and rice.  I also had them prepare a special order of plain chicken.  See if you can get him to eat some of that—he needs the protein.  It should all be pretty easy on his stomach."

"I'll do my best," Sara promised.  "Meet you back at the break room?"

"Sure."

The two women parted and went their separate ways.

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	8. Questions

**A/N:   Here's an update.  I hope everyone is still enjoying this story.  Thanks again for all the reviews so far!  **

**Chapter 8:  Questions**

"Hey," Sara greeted, walking over and placing a hand on Grissom's shoulder.  She slid into the seat next to him at the table.  Greg and Warrick were dumping their trash on their way out of the break room.

"How are you doing?" she asked Grissom, brushing a hand through his hair affectionately.

From the doorway, Greg watched this exchange, noting the way Sara was hovering around the boss; he had seen Catherine doing it, too.  The young lab tech coughed deliberately and loudly, causing Sara to look his way.  "You know, Sara, I'm not feeling too well myself.  Maybe what Grissom has is catching."  He couldn't hide the broad grin that was breaking out on his face.

Sara didn't move from Grissom's side.  "It helps, Greg, if you don't look so happy when you're pretending to be sick."

He just shrugged at his unsuccessful attempt to get his share of attention from the female CSIs.

Grissom, a tiny smile on his tired face, turned toward Greg.  "Remember to page me when you get the blood results we talked about."

"Yes, sir," Greg answered, still smiling as he left the room.  "See you later, Sara."

"See you, Greg."

Halfway out the door, Warrick announced, "I'll get to work on those shoe treads and fingerprints, Gris."

"Let me know if you find anything."

"Will do."

Retrieving the bottle from her pocket, Sara opened it and shook two round tablets free.  "Take these," she said, dropping them into Grissom's hand.  She stood and stepped to the counter, examining the condition of the Chinese takeout bags.  The contents included mostly empty cardboard boxes and aluminum trays haphazardly thrown back into their original bags, along with some fortune cookies, pairs of chopsticks, and a wide assortment of unopened sauce packets.

"They're like vultures," Sara complained, mostly to herself, "like they haven't eaten in a week.  I hope they left us something."  Finally, she happened upon the sack that held her and Grissom's orders.  "Ah, here we go," she said, happily unloading the paper bag.

She turned to see him getting out of the chair.  "What do you need?" she asked him.  "I'll get it."

"I've got it," he assured her.  He bent down to the mini-fridge and pulled out his bottle of water.

She looked at him curiously, raising an eyebrow.

"For the pills," he explained, sitting back down

"What's wrong with your tea?"

"Nothing, but I just poured this cup and I didn't think chugging pills with scalding hot liquid was the best idea."

"Good thinking," she answered with a grin.

He unscrewed the top of the bottle and swallowed the two tablets.

"Do you want to start with some soup?" she asked.

"What kind?"

"Looks like.chicken noodle."

The memory of him and Catherine on the side of the road came rushing back, and he quickly lost some of his recently renewed appetite.  "No soup," he responded flatly.

"How about some rice?" she suggested, opening the white cardboard box.

"That sounds good, Sara, but I can get."

"Let me heat it up," she interrupted, ignoring what she knew was his offer to serve himself.  "Catherine also got some chicken-plain, no sauce.  Why don't you try some of that, too?"

"Okay," he replied.

"Just give me a minute."  Spooning the food onto a paper plate, she popped it into the microwave.  When it beeped, she passed the plate to Grissom at the table.  Only then did she locate the carton of vegetable lo mein, empty a portion of it onto a plate, and heat up her own meal.  When it was ready, she sat down next to Grissom again and dug in.  She hadn't eaten in eight hours or so and she was famished.

Grissom started slowly, avoiding the chicken and just trying the rice at first.  His stomach accepted willingly, growling for more, and he stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork.  Warily, he chewed and swallowed, and then waited on the reaction from his stomach.  The chicken seemed to go down fine, so he pushed some more of the food onto his fork and continued eating.

Sara rapidly cleaned her plate, then went back and reheated the left over lo mein.  By this time, Grissom had finished about half of what Sara had put on his plate, and had pushed the rest away.

Greg came in, knocking on the doorframe to make himself known.  "Sorry to interrupt, but I knew you'd want this right away," he said, handing a printout to Grissom.

He slid on his glasses and skimmed it, his eyes drifting past the rows of numbers to the identifying name in the leftmost column.  "You're sure about this, Greg?"

The younger man nodded.  "I even checked it twice."

"Thanks," Grissom replied.  He seemed to retreat inward for several minutes, blocking out all the distractions-noise, movement, people-in his surroundings, and just focusing completely.  Then he allowed it all to seep back in, starting slowly, but building like a crescendo to a final sudden blast of bright motion and jarring cacophony.  He found himself staring into Sara's face and he knew she was waiting for an explanation.  He didn't even realize that Greg had slipped out of the room.  Finally finding his voice, Grissom filled her in, "Jo-Ann from days found a blood contribution from a male on the walls of the house we processed tonight."

She knew that couldn't be all, so she waited for him to go on.

"There was nothing in CODIS, so Greg compared the blood to the DNA of our guy from the desert.  It was a perfect match."

Sara smiled, a revelatory glint in her eyes.  "So Joey Winston was killed in that house before being dumped in the desert.  We've got one case, not two."

"Well, there's still Nick and Warrick's B and E."

"Yeah, but our _murders_ are connected."  She thought for a moment, and then added, "But why dump Joey's body and leave the girl in the bedroom?"

"To throw us off the scent?" he ventured.

Sara was shaking her head.  "I don't know, Grissom.we may have to return to that house.  Now that we know it was the site of _two_ murders, we might have to recheck the scene with fresh eyes."

"Yeah, but not yet." he murmured, more to himself than to Sara.

She was about to respond when Catherine walked in.  "Hey, guys," she said.

"Any luck with Dr. Robbins?" Sara asked.

"Well, he didn't have any thermometers that were fit for human use-_living_ human use anyway."

Grissom glanced from one woman to the other in puzzlement.

"But he did find this," Catherine continued, holding up a small, colorful strip in a sealed plastic wrapper.

"What_ is_ that?" the younger CSI wondered.

"It's one of those strip thermometers they use on surgery patients.  It sticks to the person's forehead so the doctors can immediately see their current body temperature.  Al picked up a couple at some convention.  He thought it was a cool little gadget.  He had forgotten he had them, but dug one out when I told him about Grissom.  Should do the trick and it's easy to monitor, although Al said these things aren't super sensitive.  We just have to stick it on."

"I am _not_ walking around with that thing stuck to my head," Grissom said firmly, speaking for the first time since Catherine had arrived.

The women exchanged an amused look.

"You don't have to put it on your head, Gil," Catherine explained.  "The doc said you chest would be fine-anywhere on your torso, really."

He looked less than thrilled by that prospect also.

"We need to know what your temperature is, Gil," Catherine insisted.  "So."

He glared at her for a little bit longer, then exhaled audibly, surrendering the argument.  He stood, and opened the top two buttons of his shirt.  Catherine tore the thermometer package, and removed the heat-sensitive strip from its adhesive backing.  Pulling his shirt aside, Catherine affixed the strip to left side of his chest, about three inches below his collarbone.  Smoothing it into place, she felt the overabundance of heat coming from his skin.  "You _are_ hot," Catherine commented.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me," he grumbled.

"Now what?" Sara asked.

"Al said to wait a few minutes for the strip to stabilize.  After that it should monitor his body temp fairly well-at least giving us an idea of how high his fever is."

Grissom sat back down, and Catherine joined him and Sara at the table.  "Anything new from the lab?" she inquired.

"Yeah," Sara said gleefully, wanting to be the first to share it with Catherine.  "Greg and Jo-Ann found blood from the house that doesn't belong to our vic.  It's male-and it matches the DNA of our guy from the desert yesterday."

"Joseph Winston?"

Sara nodded.  "His mother positively ID'd his body earlier."

"So Winston was killed at the house and then dumped?"

"Evidently," said Grissom.

"But why?"

Her question held the same implication as Sara's had earlier:  why hide just one body and leave the other in plain sight?

"Could it be that the killer didn't have time to dump the second body?" Sara offered.  "Did Robbins or David tell you how long she'd been dead?"

"Yeah," Catherine replied.  "David estimated her time of death to be twelve hours before she was found."

"That should have been plenty of time to transport her somewhere else, if that's what the killer wanted to do."

"Wait, I still don't get this," Catherine began.  "The killer stabs Joey Winston and dumps him in the desert, and then _five_ _days later_ murders a woman in the same house?  So did Joey or the woman _belong_ there or did the killer just _use_ that house as a place to do his killings?  And did he keep the woman there all this time before he killed her?" she finished; she had subconsciously inserted male pronouns when referring to the murderer.

"Too many questions." Grissom mumbled.  He seemed distracted, and he had remained uncharacteristically quiet during the heated conversation between the two women.  Grissom usually always had something to say about a case.

Catherine looked at him, chalking up his reticence to a combination of exhaustion and illness.  "Should we send someone back to the scene to look for evidence of Joey Winston's murder?" she asked.  "Maybe something we missed before?"

"Not yet," Grissom said suddenly, repeating his words from before.  He voice was determined and loud and took the women by surprise.

"Why not?" Sara wondered.

"I'm waiting on the rest of the DNA results from Greg," he stated, as if that alone were reason enough.

"Grissom, I still don't understand." Sara began.

"There's another."  He trailed off, not knowing how to explain it without sounding irrational.  An odd mingling of fear and embarrassment played around his face and was reflected in his eyes.  He tried to hide the competing emotions, but they remained obvious to the two women watching him expectantly.  He gathered his breath and then spoke again, "Let's just say I have a hunch about something and I'm waiting on Greg for evidence to back it up."

Grissom could tell that his two colleagues were struggling not to comment, so he decided to add something before they did, "I know, I know.  It shouldn't be about what we think or feel-it should just be about the evidence.  But this is different."

Catherine and Sara could tell he was totally serious, so they didn't try to joke.  They shared a glance, and knew that they were thinking the same thing:  did Grissom's 'hunch' have something to do with that old case or his nightmares?

He was obviously uncomfortable talking about why he had this 'hunch,' and the women knew better than to push him, so Catherine said, "All right, Grissom, we'll wait for Greg's results.  How much longer do you think it will be?"

"I don't know.  I think they're probably done with about two-thirds of our blood samples."  He stood up and grabbed his plate, headed for the garbage can.

"That's all you're going to eat?" Sara asked.

"It's about all I can handle for now, Sara," he admitted.

"Okay," she replied, concerned that he didn't feel up to eating more, but she figured whatever small amount he had managed to get down was good enough for now.  She gathered up the rest of the food and put it in the refrigerator with the untouched soup.

"I'm gonna go do a final check-in with the insects and then take a look at the crime scene photos," he informed the other CSIs.

"Wait a second," Catherine said, stopping him.  "Let's check out that thermometer first."

Grissom pulled apart the sides of his shirt so Catherine could see.  Looking carefully, she read the approximate number off the strip.  The line of color had spread into the orange zone, on the high end of the strip.

"Wow, Gil," Catherine reported.  "One hundred three or so.  When you do something, you really do it big.  You hardly ever get sick, but when you do, you take it to the extreme.  Al said we don't have to _really_ worry until your temperature goes above one-oh-four, so you're right on the border."  She shared a glance with Sara; they both knew they would have to keep a very close eye on him.  They didn't want to force him to see a doctor, but they realized his condition was leading them in that direction.  "I guess it's okay for now," Catherine continued.  "As long as your temperature starts going down and not up any higher."

Unwittingly proving her point, Grissom sneezed into a tissue he pulled out of his jacket pocket.  After disposing of the tissue, he buttoned his shirt back up, effectively camouflaging the thermometer strip.  "I'll be in my office and then the layout room," he told them.  "Catherine, can you check in with Warrick and work on the other evidence from the house?  And, Sara, how about working the tire treads and shoeprints from the desert yesterday?"

Catherine nodded, and Sara replied, "Sure, Gris," as the two women followed him out of the room.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	9. Decision

**A/N:  Yes, another new chapter is up.  I was so happy to see a bunch of reviews for chapter 8!  It's always nice to hear what the wonderful readers here have to say about my fics.  Thanks everyone!  I also have to thank my pal, Grissom, for the help she gave me with this part.  Without _that_ 'Grissom,' poor sick Grissom in the fic might _never_ have gotten home! *evil grin*  So we all owe my friend and beta, Grissom, much thanks!  Enjoy!**

**Also, I may take longer to update this in the next week or so.  I'm going on vacation and it will be difficult to get online.  I'm going to try to post chapter 10 sometime next week.  Hopefully I'll be able to, and then the wait won't be _too_ much longer than usual.  If I'm successful with getting chapter 10 up while I'm away, chapter 11 should be posted next Sunday when I return home.  Again, enjoy!**

**Chapter 9:  Decision**

Before setting up shop in the layout room, Grissom had done the last calculations based on the growth of the insects and had discovered that Joey Winston, their victim from the desert, had been dead for five days.  He had called over to Brass at PD and given him the information.  Grissom had really wanted to physically hand over his findings to the police captain, but he knew he couldn't drive there to do it.  So he put the folder aside and figured Brass would stop by and pick it up eventually, or one of the other CSIs could deliver it the next time they headed over the police station.

Now, Grissom stood, hunched over, staring at the seemingly endless photos of blood-spatter spread out over the lighted table.  He had been in that position so long that all the images of red had begun to blend together into one giant, unfocused blur.  He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, then gave up momentarily, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his aching eyes.  He had been comfortable earlier, but now he felt suddenly cold.  Turning away from the table, he grabbed several tissues and coughed into them powerfully.  He tried to ignore the throbbing in his head and the chills cascading through his body as he walked over to the end of the table where a cardboard box lay.

The word "unsolved" was scrawled across the dusty front, along with two names and a date: 3/12/87.  Taking a deep breath, Grissom lifted off the top and glanced inside.  He reached in and pulled out a stack of photos.  Studying each one intently, he placed them down on the table next to the others.  He picked up the magnifier and looked at the old photos more closely.  Doing a quick comparison to the pictures from the current crime scene, Grissom saw definite similarities.  Some of the blood markings appeared to have been made in the same way.

He remembered the old case well now.  Before he had relived the unsolved case in his dream, it had been like he had put it out of his mind, maybe even repressed the memory.  He recalled now why he had had to do that.

His nightmare from earlier was just the like the ones he had had fifteen years ago.  The whole situation was as strange and scary as it had been back then.  Certainly cases had affected him over the years—more than he liked to admit—and there had been nightmares.  But nothing quite as intense and completely terrifying as what had gone through his sleeping mind a few hours ago.  The images had been so clear and seemed so real.  It was almost like they could be premonitions—visions of horrible things to come.  But somehow, he felt, he _knew_, that these things had already happened.

What Grissom had seen in both incarnations of these dreams were images from the blood-engulfed crime scenes.  The swirling red patterns surrounded him and filled his mind's eye.  Then came the murders; he saw the victims being killed—the two women from fifteen years ago, the man and woman from yesterday—the knife blade slamming viciously into them, then being wrenched out, over and over, the blood splattering against the walls.  The image that was different, that made his recent dream even more unsettling, was what came next.  Grissom "watched" as another victim, a _third_ victim, was killed.  She was stabbed in the same house as the other two, and then taken out and dumped.  He couldn't be exactly sure where, but it looked like a wooded area.  Somehow, Grissom knew this had already happened.  But he also knew that he couldn't tell anyone about this or they would think he was, at the very least, irrational, or having hallucinations; at the worst, they might think he had completely lost it.

Tearing his eyes away from the photos, he glanced down and checked his beeper for the fifth time, afraid he might have missed a message.  He was expecting a page from Greg telling him that a third person's DNA was found on the walls of the Rosen house, their blood mingled with the others'.  He also knew he would hear from Brass that another body had been found, dumped somewhere, and that the victim's DNA would match Greg's mystery profile.  That's why he had told Sara and Catherine to wait on a return trip to the crime scene.  He wanted all the information on _all _the victims to be in before they went back there, looking for more evidence.  But he couldn't tell his team _why_ he was hesitating.  He knew they would think he was totally crazy.

It was a strange sensation, being certain these events would occur, but not knowing exactly when.  The waiting was making Grissom more and more unsettled.  He was jumpy, tense, on edge, and it didn't help that his body was shivering uncontrollably.  _Why was it so cold in here?_ he thought, crossing his arms in front of him as he turned his attention back to the spread of photos.

He didn't realize that Sara and Catherine had stepped into the layout room, until Sara softly said, "Hey, Gris."

He glanced up and acknowledged their presence.

"Did you find something?" Sara continued.

"I think so."   He stepped back so the women could take a look at the pictures through the magnifying lens.  They each took a turn as Grissom asked, "Do you remember this case, Catherine?"

"A little," she replied, squinting at the photos.  "I was on the original call with you, but then I got pulled off."

"It was a double homicide—two female stabbing victims.  The blood patterns were similar to what we saw tonight.  Can you see it?"

Catherine nodded slowly.  "Yeah."

She handed the lens to Sara, who studied the photos and also noticed the resemblance.  "Did you ever find the source of the blood patterns? They don't look like anything I've seen before."

"I never did," he explained.  "The leads dried up and we had to close the case as 'unsolved.'"  His eyes drifted back to the columns of photos, and the women shared a glance.  It had been impossible for them not to notice that he was shivering again—worse than before.

Sara touched his arm and waited until he looked at her.  "We've got updates for you on some of the other evidence," she told him.  "Come on, we'll fill you in."  She began gently tugging him toward the door.

"Can't you just tell me here?"

"Let's find someplace more comfortable," Sara said.

Catherine gave him a little push and the three of them made their way out of the room.  The women led him into the break room, and he lowered himself heavily onto the couch.  As Sara slid her fingers off his arm, she touched his hand, which was so frigid that it felt like the warmth of blood wasn't circulating through it at all.  "Grissom, you're freezing," she blurted, not fully realizing how bad his shivering had become.  She held his chilly hand in both of hers for a moment, hoping to send some of her own warmth into him.  "Your hands are like ice," she added unnecessarily.  She marveled at the fact that the biological effects of a fever could make him so hot and so cold at the same time.  "I'll be right back," she told him, releasing his hand, which he instantly stuck into the pocket of his lab coat.

As she walked by Catherine on her way out, she gave her a look of concern, which Catherine read perfectly.  Catherine turned toward Grissom as she refilled the teapot and put it on the heat.  "Some tea will warm you right up," she said.

Sara breezed back in with Grissom's windbreaker.  Unfortunately, he didn't have a warmer coat there in the lab.  "Come on, put this on."

He stood up to unbutton his lab coat, and then slipped it off, exposing his short-sleeved shirt.  He shuddered even more as the cool air hit his bare arms, and then Sara helped him shrug quickly into the nylon jacket.  He snapped it closed as fast as he could, trying not to lose precious body heat.  Sara fastened the top two snaps for him, and he immediately jammed his hands into the pockets and sat down again, still shaking.

"Is that a little better?" she asked, sitting next to him on the couch, and beginning to vigorously rub first his left arm and then his back and shoulders.

"Yeah, thanks," he replied quietly.

"Here," Catherine said, handing him the steaming mug of tea.

Grissom wrapped his hands around the ceramic curves, luxuriating in the intense heat seeping in through his fingers, but his hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly lift the mug to his lips without spilling the contents.

Sara put her hands over his, trying to keep the cup steady as he brought it to his mouth.  "Careful," she warned.

He blew on the surface of the golden brown liquid and then took two tentative sips.  He lowered the mug to the nearby tabletop, and put it down to cool a bit.  He missed the feeling of the warmth in his palms, but he was afraid he was about to spill the tea all over the place.  He put his hands back in his pockets, curling them into fists to try and warm them.

Sara returned to briskly rubbing her hand over Grissom's back, drawing invisible circles on the smooth nylon; the motion seemed intended to soothe rather than to generate any actual heat.  She could feel his body continuing to quiver under the woefully inadequate jacket.  She began to think that maybe she should have retrieved a blanket from the supply closet instead.  The only thing that would _really_ help him, she knew, would be to just get him the hell out of there and into his own bed.  As time wore on, Sara was moving closer to making an "executive" decision and just dragging Grissom from the building—against his will if necessary.

"So tell me about the evidence you've been working," Grissom said, trying to act business-like.  But his shaky voice and exhausted eyes gave him away.

"I got a hit off the tire treads from the desert," Sara began.

Grissom looked at her and listened, barely noticing that she continued to idly run her left hand over his back.

"Those types of tires are Firestone wide ovals.  They come standard on GM muscle cars from the 60s and 70s.  They still make them using the original molds, but they would only be found on these classic muscle cars.  Also, there were three different sets of visible shoeprints.  The computer spit out a match for the most distinctive tread—it's a Nike Endeavor, size eleven, a basketball sneaker.  And," she added excitedly, "the sneaker tread is also an exact match for the bloody shoeprints you photographed in the kitchen of the house.  That links our killer to both scenes."

When she stopped talking, she realized that Grissom's gaze had shifted downward.  Once he registered the sudden silence, he raised his eyes, and Sara saw that they were clouded with exhaustion.  He blinked and then said, "Did you pass this information onto Brass?"

"Yeah, he's running DMV records," Sara explained, "trying to cross-check owners of those specific types of GM vehicles with a list of Joey Winston's friends and acquaintances that his mother provided.  We don't know what the connection is between the victims, but it's possible that they were chosen carefully, that maybe the killer knew them or had watched them for a while.  When we have a suspect in custody, we can use the shoeprint for comparison."

"They were chosen," he said softly.  "All three of them…"

Sara furrowed her brow in confusion.  "Gris, what are you talking about?  There are only two victims."

He turned toward her quickly, not realizing he had said the words out loud.  Then he shook his head distractedly and reached for the mug of tea.  He held it with both hands again and swallowed several mouthfuls.  He took a moment to savor the comforting warmth as it started to spread from his stomach to his icy extremities.  As he put the cup back down, Sara noticed that his shivering had subsided just a little.

Catherine decided to take this chance to fill Grissom in on her and Warrick's end of the investigation.  "Besides the sneaker treads, we had your partial fingerprint.  Jacqui studied it and she thinks it may be part of a thumbprint.  We also ran the prints you got from the door.  There are matches to both our victims, and one set of unknowns.  The print you lifted from the doorbell was a match to Joey Winston."

"Was that the only print you got off the bell, Grissom?" Sara asked.

"The only clear one," he replied.

"So Joey was the last one to ring that bell," Sara concluded.

"That tells us that no one ran the bell for five days," Catherine stated.  "And that if Joey rang the bell he probably knew the other victim or had a job where he had to go door-to-door.  Did Mrs. Winston mention if Joey worked?"

"No, she didn't," Sara answered.  "But I think we should go ask her."

"Brass could bring her back in," Catherine suggested.  "What do you think, Grissom?"

He didn't respond; he didn't even seem to hear her.  Sara grasped his arm and shook him.  "Grissom?"

He lifted his head slightly, but kept his gaze trained down.  "Uh, yeah, Cath, that's a good idea," he agreed absently.  "Bring the mother in and ask her about her son's employment.  Also see if she recognizes a photo of our other victim, or Jessica Rosen's name, or the address of the house where Joey was killed."  He withdrew back into silence, not making eye contact with either of the women.

Many things were spiraling through Grissom's mind.  He was trying to think about what Catherine had just said about how Joey's fingerprint fit in with the case.  He was thinking about all the blood—from this case and the old one—and wondering why he hadn't heard from Brass or Greg about the third victim he was _sure_ was out there.  But these thoughts floated about without really sinking in.  He couldn't focus or concentrate as waves of agonizing pain radiated through his head.  He sat back on the couch, closed his eyes tightly, and massaged his forehead and the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

Sara and Catherine stared at him worriedly as he lowered his hands and blew out a deep breath.

"Grissom, are you all right?" Sara asked, gently gripping his arm with one hand and his shoulder with the other.  "Grissom?"

He reacted to her voice, turning and looking right at her.  When she saw the pain darkening his eyes, she knew the decision had been made.  Enough was enough—she was getting him out of there.  Laying a palm again his forehead, and then sliding it to his cheek just proved her point further; he felt as hot to her as he had earlier—his fever was still not improving.  Sara's urgent concern was mixed with anger—anger directed at Grissom for pushing himself too hard and at herself and Catherine for not stopping him.  Yeah, this case was important—all their cases were—but nothing was as important as Grissom.  She just wished she had acted sooner.

"Come on," she said to him.  She stood and then gently pulled him off the sofa.  He seemed a bit confused, but didn't resist Sara's leading movements.  She turned to their coworker, "This is ridiculous, Catherine," she told her.  "He can't stay here any longer.  I'm taking him home."  Her voice held just a hint of indignation.  She knew she was right, and hoped that Catherine didn't intend to argue.

It seemed that Catherine was going to say something to stop Sara, but she just shook her head and replied, "You're right, Sara.  Go.  Get him out of here."  Then she added apologetically, "I was just trying to take charge and think about the case.  I guess I went too far."

Sara continued pulling Grissom out of the room.

"But the case…" he protested weakly, echoing Catherine's sentiment.

"Forget about the case, Grissom," she instructed.  Her tone was gentle, but her motion and demeanor were firm as she led him toward his office.  Once inside, she tossed everything she had purchased earlier back into the drug store bag, and grabbed it along with his leather portfolio.  Then they headed out of the building.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	10. Sanctuary

**A/N:  Here we go again!  Sorry this chapter is kind of short, but it is definitely another G/S 'friendly' part, so I hope that makes those who read this happy *shippy grin*  I'm so grateful for all of the reviews so far, and I hope this story continues to be one you will enjoy.  So please, read on!**

**Chapter 10:  Sanctuary**

They were in Sara's SUV, nearly at Grissom's townhouse, when he finally spoke, "You know, I was waiting for some important results from Greg."

"I'll call Catherine," she replied logically, "and have her call us the minute Greg's results come in."  She didn't want him to have any excuses—real or imagined—for having to go back to the lab.

She glanced over at him.  He was still shivering slightly, even though she had the heat blasting, and he had resumed his previous position of facing forward with his eyes tightly closed, moving his fingertips over his forehead and temples.

They pulled up in front of Grissom's townhouse, and Sara shut off the car.  She noticed that his eyes were now wide open and one of his hands had shifted to his stomach.  He seemed to be intently focused as he took slow, deep breaths.  Sara thought she knew what might be wrong.  "Are you okay?" she asked him.

"Just give me a minute," he said tightly, continuing to concentrate on his breathing.

"Look, Grissom," she began, her tone light, "if you're going to throw up again, I'd just like a little more warning this time."

He threw her a pathetic attempt at a glare, his exasperation being overshadowed by his discomfort.  "You'll be the first to know."

They sat there a little while longer, until Grissom got temporary control over his jumpy stomach.  "I think it's passing," he told her.

She climbed out and came around to his side, where he joined her on the pavement.  As soon as they got inside the house and he tossed down his keys, she said, "All right, go get undressed and into bed."

He stood there for a few seconds, dazed, until she repeated, "Go," and waved him in the direction of his bedroom.

After he walked off, Sara set down what she had been holding and began to look through his kitchen.  She had wanted to suggest food, but after realizing how queasy his stomach still was, she had thought better of it.  Instead, she was searching the cabinets to see what kind of teas Grissom had, if any.  She was surprised when she found a box of herbal teas, but she chose two packets of chamomile.  She put water on the stove to boil and then also found mugs and even a bear-shaped container of honey.

Once everything was prepared, Sara made her way to Grissom's bedroom.  Holding the cup of tea in one hand, and a bottle of water under her arm, she knocked on the door.  "Can I come in?" she asked.

"Sure," came his response from inside.

As she pushed the door open, she found him sitting in the bed, propped up by pillows.  He had changed into a faded blue sweatshirt, and the blankets were gathered around his waist.  When she noticed that he was still shivering, she was glad she had brought the hot tea, which she put down on his nightstand with the water.  "Here you go," she said.  "It's chamomile, and I put a little honey in it for your throat."

"Thanks," he replied, taking a small sip of the tea, and then just holding the heated mug in his hands.

Sara glanced around, noting that he had folded his clothes neatly and placed them on his desk chair.  His "FORENSICS" windbreaker wasn't immediately visible, and she supposed he had hung it up in the closet.  She disappeared briefly into the other room to gather up all the different pills and tablets she had purchased at the drugstore.  Then she lined them up on his nightstand next to the bottle of water, and checked to make sure he had an adequate supply of tissues nearby as well.  "Do you have a thermometer?" she asked him.  "I don't trust that strip thing."

"In the medicine cabinet," he told her, motioning with his head toward the bathroom.

She walked in, trying not to snoop too much as she searched the contents of his medicine cabinet.  There actually wasn't that much to see—just the usual over-the-counter products, band-aids, a razor, what looked like a prescription for migraines, and about six of those little plastic things of floss.  _Way to focus on the dental hygiene, Gris,_ Sara thought, smiling to herself.  When she found the thermometer, she rinsed it off and then shook it down.

"Here we go," she said, walking back over to him.  She placed the thermometer carefully under his tongue.  "Three minutes, no talking."

While she waited for his temperature to register, Sara stepped into the living room to call Catherine and check on any developments in the case.  Everything was still the same as when they had left.  Greg hadn't finished the blood samples yet, and Catherine and Warrick were waiting for those results before they went back to the crime scene.  Catherine said she was heading down to interrogation to wait for the arrival of Mrs. Winston.  Sara told her to make sure to call if anything new came up.

Folding up her phone, Sara returned to Grissom's bedroom.  She pulled out the thermometer and read the scale out loud, "One-oh-three-point-four.  I guess the strip wasn't too far off after all.  We need to get this fever down, Grissom."  She glanced at her watch.  "It's too early to give you more medicine.  Why don't you lie down and try to get some sleep?  Hopefully, that'll help."

He took one last sip of the tea and nodded.  Placing the mug on his nightstand, he moved down under the covers.

"Are you feeling hot or cold right now?" she asked.

"To be honest, still a little cold," he admitted, as a small shudder coursed through him.

She pulled the blankets up over his shoulders as he turned onto his side and closed his eyes.

"Thanks, Sara," he said softly.

"Sure."  She was leaning over him, with her hands still on the top edge of his comforter.  She wanted to touch him, to offer him comfort through a physical connection, but she didn't know if she should.  How would he react if she stroked the side of his face or ran her fingers through his hair?  _Maybe he was so delirious from the fever that he wouldn't even realize what had happened…_  She pushed that amusing, but highly unlikely, thought from her head as her left hand hovered inches above his cheek.

Making the decision, she gently touched her fingertips to his overly warm skin.  Starting at his temple, she moved her fingers down his face to his chin, then back up again.  Tracing around his ear, she brushed her hands through his hair several times, her fingertips disappearing into the soft salt-and-pepper waves. 

She saw a hint of a smile form on his lips, and although he was probably already half-asleep, she knew he felt her touches and didn't seem to mind them.  "Get some sleep.  I'll be right outside," she promised quietly.  "Just call if you need me."

He nodded, beginning to increase the depth of his breathing, urging his body to give into the overpowering exhaustion.

Sara clicked off the light and moved out of the room, leaving the door halfway open.

Back in the kitchen, she opened the other chamomile tea bag and fixed herself a cup.  Sipping the soothing drink, she began walking slowly around Grissom's living room.  She heard him cough and sneeze a couple of times from the other room, and looked toward his bedroom door.  _I hope he's able to fall asleep,_ she thought with concern.

She kept moving along the perimeter of the room, looking at the assortment of objects on his shelves, tables and walls.  She liked the feeling of being in Grissom's place, his home, his sanctuary.  His possessions were like him, somehow both neat and cluttered at the same time.  All his varied interests were represented—books on entomology and forensics commingling with the collected works of Shakespeare, classical music CDs stored next to Pink Floyd, beautiful mounted butterflies hanging near the remains of gruesome experiments probably involving blood and maggots.

This room was full of contradictions, sort of like its owner.  But Sara felt safe here, surrounded by Grissom's things, just like she always felt in the presence of the man himself.

She paused in front of the CD player, cocking an ear toward the bedroom.  She heard only silence now, hoping that meant he was asleep.  Looking through Grissom's collection of discs, she chose a selection by Mozart.  She plugged in the expensive-looking cushioned earphones she had found, and then popped in the CD.  Getting comfortable on the couch, she propped her feet on the coffee table, and then hit "play" on the stereo remote.  She adjusted the earphones, covering just one ear and leaving the other one free so she could hear Grissom if she needed to.

She took another swallow of the tea and leaned back.  Chamomile was known for its calming properties and she hoped it was true.  She closed her eyes and thought about the case.  She was tired—and she knew Catherine, Warrick, and Greg were, too.  She knew they could use her help at the lab and at the crime scene.  But there was no way she was going to leave Grissom alone.  She vividly remembered the look on his face when he had woken from the nightmare in Brass's office.  _What if it happened again?_  She couldn't imagine him waking up like that and finding no one there with him.  Making sure her pager and cell phone were clipped to her belt and set in the 'silent' mode, Sara drifted off to sleep.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	11. Art

**A/N:  I'm back from my cruise!  It was great, and I want to thank everyone who wished me a good vacation *grin*  I was able to post chapter 10 rather easily while on the cruise ship, which was very cool.  Now that I'm home, I'll try to go back to my previous posting schedule for the new chapters.  Thanks again to all who have reviewed this story so far!  I hope you enjoy this next chapter, too.  I know I left off in the middle of things, but if I had continued to a more logical breaking point, this chapter would have been too long.  So things will pick up right from the 'end' of this chapter next time.  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 11:  Art**

Sara jerked awake, and looked around, getting her bearings.  _Grissom!_ she remembered suddenly, realizing what had woken her; she had thought she had heard him.  She pulled off the headphones and listened, but only the faint strains of Mozart filled the air.  Once she reached full awareness, she hit the button to stop the CD player and went to check on Grissom.

Opening his door as quietly as possible, she slipped inside.  In the light filtering in from the other room, it looked like he was still sleeping, so she must have only imagined hearing his voice.  Turning on the lamp to make sure he was okay, she saw that he had rolled onto his back now.  The covers had fallen below his shoulders, and he was sweating profusely.  Drops of moisture stood out on his forehead and face, and had even soaked into the collar of his sweatshirt.  She knew that was good; it meant that fever was finally breaking, but he didn't seem at all comfortable.

Sara slipped into the bathroom and found a clean washcloth.  She turned on the sink, letting the water run.  Her first instinct was to use cold water, but she didn't want to cool him off _too_ quickly or he might start shivering again and that would only raise his temperature.  So she waited until the water felt lukewarm, and then saturated the washcloth.  She wrung it out until it no longer dripped and then took it to Grissom.

As gently as she could, so she wouldn't wake him, she wiped the damp cloth over his face.  He stirred a little, and turned his head toward her, but remained asleep.  She adjusted the blankets, pulling them further down his chest, trying to figure out where she should place them to make him to most comfortable; she decided to stop at about the level of his ribs.

She stood by his bedside for a few minutes, just watching him.  Then she reached down, and brought the back of her fingers close to his hair, barely brushing them against the curls.  He moved slightly just then, mumbling something unintelligible and pulling his arms out from under the covers.  Sara jumped a little and jerked back her hand.  She waited to see if he was going to shift his position on the bed or awaken, but he seemed to still be deep in slumber.  She knew she really should leave the room so she wouldn't run the risk of disturbing him further, but she was reluctant.  She wanted to make sure she had done as much as she could to help him.

Sara went back into the bathroom and wet the washcloth again, using water a little bit cooler this time.  She carefully ran the cloth over his face once more, then turned off the light and left him to sleep.

She found herself back in the main area of the townhouse, not knowing what to do.  She was no longer tired, and felt the need to busy herself with something.

Flipping through the small pile of magazines on the corner of Grissom's coffee table, she located a recent forensics journal that she hadn't yet had the chance to read.  Flopping back down on the worn leather sofa, she began to peruse the table of contents.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Sara had been enjoying the article on "Blood Spatter Analysis and Distortions on Irregular Surfaces," but now she leaned back on the cushions, the magazine lying upside down on her lap.  She was zoning out, staring at the ceiling and thinking.  Then she started to feel drowsy, and allowed her heavy lids to close.

She didn't know if a minute had passed or an hour, but her eyes snapped open, seemingly of their own accord, and she was instantly totally alert.  She sensed, rather than heard, that Grissom was awake.  There was nothing but silence coming from his bedroom, but as she made her way there, she simply _knew_ she would find him awake.

Even though she had been certain of the state she would find him in when she pushed open the door, it was still a little disconcerting to see his motionless, shadowy form sitting fully upright on the bed in the darkness.  His eyes were obviously open, but he wasn't moving or speaking.  He was just…there.  He didn't even acknowledge her presence when she came over and sat down next to him on the edge of the bed.  She kept the bedside lamp off, not wanting to shock his eyes with sudden brightness.

"Jackson Pollock," he said, staring straight ahead, the words directed not toward Sara but to the room at large.

"What?" she asked.

"Jackson Pollock," he repeated.

_Oh, God, maybe he was delirious,_ Sara worried, echoing her earlier thought.  She flipped on the light so she could get a good look at him.  Grasping his arm, she said, "Grissom, are you okay?"

Blinking in the unexpected illumination, he finally turned toward her.  She could see that his eyes were a little red, but otherwise alert.  He didn't look confused or show any other signs of true delirium.  In fact, he even looked a little better than he had before, so Sara allowed herself to relax somewhat.  She was sure that what Grissom had said made perfect sense to him—even though _she_ didn't understand it yet.

"What were you just saying, Gris?" she asked him.

He shook his head, clearing the last bits of sleepy haze, and tried to explain everything to Sara, "The blood on the walls?  It just occurred to me what the patterns resemble—they're like a Jackson Pollock painting."

She nodded, and he continued, "I'm sure you know the techniques he used in his paintings?  He would just kind of 'toss' the paint onto the canvas, or 'fling' small amounts.  The blood spatter on the walls of our crime scenes—both the old and the new—looks like the paint on Pollock's canvases; it has the same overlapping patterns of elongated tendrils spreading from larger centers."

"So you're saying the killer _collected_ the blood and then splattered it onto the walls purposely?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Sara, but it explains the odd blood patterns."

"So, our killer creates _art_ with his victims' blood?"  It always amazed her—the twisted things human beings do to one another.  Just when she thought she'd seen it all, something newly horrible cropped up.  She shuddered inwardly.  "Creepy…" she added quietly.  But then her CSI instincts kicked back in, and she tried to look at the situation more objectively.  "So how do you think he does it?" she asked Grissom.  "What does he put the blood in, and how does he get it onto the walls?"

He was quiet for a minute, but then spoke quickly as the memory clicked, "I saw a lot of bowls in the dishwasher when I checked out the kitchen.  I was looking for _knives_, but didn't find any.  The bowls didn't have any importance then, but now…" He shifted his weight and started to get off the bed.  "We need to collect those bowls and check them for blood residue.  Luminol will still show blood evidence, even after they were run through the dishwasher."

"Whoa, whoa," Sara said, grabbing his arms.  "Where are you going?"

He looked at her like she should know _exactly_ where he was going.

"I'll call Catherine and tell her what you figured out," she told him.  "She and Warrick can check out the scene.  You don't have to go anywhere.  Just sit back and relax."

But he didn't relax at all; she felt his arms tense beneath her hands as he hurriedly continued his line of thought, "And we need to check the house for art supplies.  There may have been some in the garage, but Cath and I didn't pay much attention to them.  Pollock didn't use paintbrushes for his abstract work—he would fling the paint off sticks, trowels, or even palette knives.  The killer probably knew this and used a similar technique with the blood.  There could be important evidence on any art materials or tools at the crime scene."

"All right, I'll tell Catherine that, too.  She and Warrick can handle it.  They were going back to the scene again anyway, right?  To look for evidence of Joey Winston's murder."  Her tone was firm as she met his eyes.

"Right," he agreed grudgingly, and she felt his muscles loosen and his forward momentum ease off.  He stretched behind him, trying to arrange the pillows so he could sit up comfortably on the bed.  Sara reached over and helped him, placing a couple of pillows vertically to pad the headboard.

He fell back against the soft pillows, exhaling deeply.  His head was starting to hurt again; he closed his eyes for a moment, covering them with his hands and rubbing them.  Although he had seemed ready to run off to the crime scene a few minutes ago, Sara could tell it had only been an act or a brief burst of adrenaline.  Now he looked completely spent, and she knew he needed sleep more than anything else. 

Certain that he wasn't going anywhere fast, she pulled her phone off her belt and dialed up Catherine.  Sara quickly filled her in, telling her what Grissom had realized, and what she and Warrick should look for.  Then Catherine asked how Grissom was doing.  "Okay, I guess," Sara responded.  "He slept for a while."

Grissom gave her a weak glare, knowing she and Catherine were talking about him.  Sara caught his eye, smiled sweetly, then turned away and continued her conversation.  "I think his fever came down a little.  I'm going to check in a minute."

Sara gave Catherine a few more details, and then Catherine wondered, "Does Grissom want us to go back to the crime scene now?  Before he wanted us to wait for all the results from Greg."

"I'll find out."  She turned back around.  "Hey, Gris, Catherine wants to know if they should go back to the house _now_ or keep waiting on Greg?"

"Tell her they might as well just head over there," he decided.  "I'm sure Greg will be finished very soon.  Just make sure Cath has him call her as soon as the results are in."

"Right after he calls _us_ you mean."

"Yeah."

She relayed the information to Catherine who said, "Tell Grissom that I hope he feels better," before offering a goodbye and ending the conversation.

Sara shared Catherine's sentiment with Grissom.

"I'll tell her thanks the next time I talk to her."

Sara nodded.  "She said she'd let us know if they find anything at the Rosen house."

"Great," he replied, trying to stifle a yawn.

He looked almost ready to fall asleep again, but Sara wanted to take his temperature first and then try to find something he could eat.  She picked up the thermometer and shook it down to about 96°.  Putting the thermometer in his mouth again, she said, "Let's see how you're doing."  After the necessary time had elapsed, she let him know that his temperature had gone down to one hundred two.  "We're making progress here," she commented, "but I think it's time for another dose of ibuprofen, okay?"

He nodded and picked up the bottle of water still sitting on his nightstand.  Twisting it open, he waited for Sara to hand him the pills.  When she did, he swallowed them, and then took another long swig of the water before sinking back into the pillows.  His insistence on going to the crime scene had quickly disappeared as his intense exhaustion had taken over.

Studying him, Sara noticed the dark circles under his eyes for the first time.  She once again reconsidered offering him food.  She figured he was too tired to be interesting in eating, so she encouraged him to lie back down instead, "Maybe you should try to sleep some more.  You look beat."

"Will you wake me if you hear from Greg or Cath?"

She thought about it, realizing the answer she had to give to get him to rest.  "Of course I'll wake you," she promised.  _But I didn't say I'd do it as soon as the call comes in, _she added silently, knowing that, once he was asleep, she wouldn't be willing to disturb him right away.  

He was about to slide down under the covers when he stopped, plucked a few tissues from the box by his bedside, and began coughing.  The hacking spasms came from deep within his chest, and Sara didn't like how they sounded; his cough had definitely gotten worse.

"You know what, Gris?  I think you have to take something for that cough—it sounds awful."  She searched the variety of boxes and bottles on his nightstand, and located the cough medicine she had purchased.  She opened the package and read the label.  "I'll get you a spoon—be right back."  She quickly returned from the kitchen with a teaspoon and handed it to him.

Skimming over the information on the bottle himself, he pointed out, "This stuff is probably one-tenth alcohol, Sara."

"I know," she replied.  "But you're going to sleep, so that's actually helpful, isn't it?  It should knock you right out."

"I guess," he agreed, as she poured the thick, reddish liquid onto the spoon.  He tried not to grimace too much or to gag as he swallowed one teaspoon of the medicine, then another, followed rapidly by some water to wash away the horrible taste.

"Does that taste as gross as it smells?" she asked, a sympathetic grimace plastered across her face.

"Worse," he informed her.

"Well, they say the worse it tastes, the better it works, so that's something, I guess."

"If that's true, I should be completely cured almost instantaneously," he joked weakly.

She gave him a little grin.  "Can I get you anything before you settle in?" she asked.  "Do you want some more tea or…"

"I'm fine, Sara," he said, stopping her mid-sentence.  He yawned again behind his cupped hands.  "I'd probably be asleep before you could bring it anyway.  But thank you."  He got under the blankets and closed his eyes.

**To be continued…**


	12. Premonition

**A/N:  Here's the next chapter.  Remember, this immediately follows chapter 11 with no passage of time.  So if you haven't, you should read that chapter first—otherwise this might not make sense.  I have put the last couple of sentences from chapter 11 at the beginning in italics to remind you where we were.  Thanks for all the wonderful reviews!  I hope you continue to enjoy this story!**

**Chapter 12:  Premonition**

_She gave him a little grin.  "Can I get you anything before you settle in?" she asked.  "Do you want some more tea or…"_

_"I'm fine, Sara," he said, stopping her mid-sentence.  He yawned again behind his cupped hands.  "I'd probably be asleep before you could bring it anyway.  But thank you."  He got under the blankets and closed his eyes_

_. _

Sara reached for the switch on the lamp, but before she could click it off, she felt the cell phone on her belt start to vibrate.  Grabbing it, she flipped it open.  "Sidle," she began.  Then, after a few seconds, she added, "Hey, Greg.  What's up?"

At the mention of the overworked lab technician, Grissom sat up again, fully alert; his extreme fatigue of just a moment was ago temporarily forgotten.  He had been waiting for Greg's results on the blood samples, and now that he was about to hear them, he wasn't sure how to feel.  He tried to listen to Sara's end of the discussion but he couldn't decipher exactly what Greg was telling her.  After she punched "END" on the phone, she stared at Grissom, looking somewhat shocked.

"What did he say?" Grissom asked, looking for clarification of what he already feared.

She still appeared to be a little stunned as she answered, "He found another person's DNA on the walls of the Rosen house.  We have a third victim out there somewhere."

Grissom, of course, was not at all surprised.  Although he knew the response he would get, he asked, "Was it 'XX' or 'XY'?"

It took a second for his words to register.  "XX," she finally replied.  Then the memory of something he had said earlier cut through Sara's daze.  "You knew that already, didn't you?  You knew there was another victim?"

He nodded as she met his eyes.

"_How_ did you know that, Grissom?"

He didn't know what to say, so he remained silent, holding her eyes with his penetrating gaze.

"That was your hunch, wasn't it?" she asked slowly.  "That there was another victim out there?"

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice hushed.

She moved closer to him, sitting down on the edge of the bed.  "Did this have anything to do with your nightmare?" she wondered, knowing he would most likely shy away from talking about it, and just change the subject.  But he completely astounded her by answering honestly a few seconds later.

"Yes," he replied simply.

She was amazed by the openness on his face and in his eyes, but then it changed to something else—she wasn't sure what; it almost seemed like dread or panic.

"Brass," he blurted.  "Have you heard from Brass?"

"No," she responded, but looked down at her pager as if to making sure she hadn't missed any information.

"We need to call him."  He reached for the phone on the bedside table and dialed.  "Brass, it's Grissom," he began.

"Hey, Gil.  How are you feeling?"

"Better.  Look, Jim, I need you to fill me in on something."

"I'll do my best," Brass promised.

"Have you had any new 419 calls today?"

"Yeah—one or two, I think."

"Female?"

"Definitely one female," Brass told him.  "The call came in a couple of hours ago."

"Where was she found?" Grissom inquired, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for the answer.

"She was buried in the woods outside of Lake Mead in a shallow grave," he explained.  "A couple of hikers bumped into her—literally."

"Do you know the cause of death yet?" Grissom asked, exhaling shakily.

"I'm not sure—O'Riley took the call."

"Who's handling the scene?"

"I gave it to days…" Jim began, pausing as he looked up the information.

Grissom cringed as he waited for Brass.  _If it was Ecklie…___

"Um…Cohen and Sears are working it," the police captain finished.  "Why?  What's up, Gil?"

Of all the dayshift investigators, Grissom knew that Cohen and Sears were the best.  He even trusted them to some degree since he was very aware that they didn't like Ecklie either.  But still, Grissom knew this woman's death was tied in with graveyard's case and he needed his own people to work it.

After taking another deep breath, Grissom tried to explain it to Brass, "I can't tell you why, Jim, but I know this woman's death is related to our case from last night.  Greg found another victim's blood on the walls of that scene, and I know the DNA will match this woman from the woods.  Can you talk to Cohen and Sears?  Ask them to do a DNA comparison to prove it?  I don't know if Greg is still there, but if not, another lab tech needs to check this new vic's DNA against Greg's unknown sample."

"Yeah, Gil, of course I'll talk to them, but…"**__**

"I've got to go down there and see that body," Grissom interrupted.  "Do you know if the autopsy has been done yet?"

"No, but…"

"Never mind.  We'll be right there.  Thanks, Jim."  He hung up the phone and turned to Sara.  Although she had only heard half the conversation, she had a fairly good idea of what Grissom intended to do.

"Did you say 'we'll be right there'?" she asked him.  "Where do you think we're going?"

"To the lab.  There was another body found…"

"I heard that part," she said, cutting him off.  "And you think it's our third vic?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you let the dayshift handle it?" she suggested.  "They can work in conjunction with Catherine and Warrick since we're short-handed.  As long as Ecklie isn't directly…"

"It's _our_ case, Sara," he interrupted.  "This woman is our third victim and _we _should process the evidence."

"We don't know that for sure, Gris."

"But _I_ do," he implored.

Despite the edge of desperation she saw in his blue eyes as they bore into hers, she still wasn't about to let him go anywhere if she could help it.  But at the same time, she wanted him to feel secure that their case would be in good hands, so she said, "I'll call Catherine.  She and Warrick can…"

"They can't do it by themselves," Grissom said, cutting her off again.  "They're already handling too much.  They've been working for nearly twenty-four hours straight, haven't they?  I can't ask them to take care of this, too."

"Well, you're in no shape to go to work."

"I'm okay, Sara," he lied.

"No, you're not."

"Just give me a minute or two to get dressed, and then we can head over to the lab."

Her frustration growing as he ignored her statement, she told him, "I am _not_ driving you back to that lab so you can make yourself even sicker.  The flu can be dangerous, Grissom, you know that.  People can die from it."

"I'm not going to die," he said in an exasperated tone.  He was quickly becoming bothered by her behavior; he seemed to have no idea how truly worried she was.

"Even so," she persisted, "I'm still not taking you back to the lab."  She paused for a second, attempting to get her own anger and aggravation under control.  "I'll go back if you want—help out Catherine and Warrick.  But only if I know you're going to stay here in bed and take it easy.  I can call you and keep you aware of what's going on with the investigation."  After another beat, she added, "I'll even bring you back a copy of the case file—anything to keep you here and resting like you should be."

"Sara," he began slowly, hating to admit what he was about to say, "I really can't drive right now.  I need you to take me to the lab—please."

If he thought being honest and polite was going to help him win the argument he was very, very wrong.  "Grissom, there's no way I'm taking you anywhere," she said, remaining calm.  "Just think about what you're asking me.  You wouldn't be much help in your condition."  She could tell he was about to protest, so she added, her volume rising as her concern built to an irritated crescendo, "I know you're dedicated, but this is crazy.  You…your _health_ is more important than any case.  So I'm not taking you anywhere."  Having said her piece, she crossed her arms, striking a stubborn, satisfied pose in front of him.

"Fine, I'll just call a cab then," he told her, annoyance evident in his voice.  Any stronger ire he might have felt was held in check by his sheer exhaustion.  But he made his point very well as he flung back the covers and climbed quickly off the bed.  "If you'll excuse me, I need to get dressed now."  He motioned toward the doorway, ushering her gently, but swiftly out of the room.  He closed the door behind her before she could say or do anything more.

Pulling off his sweatshirt, and exposing the t-shirt he wore underneath, he immediately began shivering as he headed over to the closet to search for something to wear.  As he stared at the variety of shirts draped over the hangers, he suddenly felt lightheaded; his raspy breaths became shallow, spots danced in his vision, and everything began to turn gray and fuzzy.  He broke out in a cold sweat as wave after wave of nausea churned through his stomach, and his body began to shake more violently.  He didn't know if he was going to pass out or throw up, but he was pretty sure one of the two was about to happen.

He stumbled back to the bed and sat down on the edge, dropping his head between his knees and trying to breathe deeply.  He focused on the floor and hoped the horribly unpleasant, out-of-control sensation would pass.

Sara paced through Grissom's living room, stopping mid-stride to stare at his closed bedroom door for the fifteenth time.  She glanced at her watch again—it had been ten minutes and he hadn't emerged yet.  She was furious with him, just about ready to kill him, or at least make good on her earlier threat and punch him out, but at the same time, the lack of sound she heard from his room worried her.  _What was he doing in there?_ she thought.  She had heard the evidence of movement after he had sent her out, but since then, nothing.  The door was completely shut, but she still should have been able to hear _something_.  She knew for sure that she hadn't heard him on the phone calling a cab as he had threatened.

After another two minutes she couldn't take it anymore.  She stepped to his door, knocking rapidly to give him a little warning, and then pushed it open.

Seeing him sitting there, staring downward, shaking with chills, did nothing to allay her fears.  She rushed over, kneeling on the floor in front of him.  "Grissom, what's the matter?" she asked breathlessly.

When he looked up at her, she saw his sweaty face, which was even paler than before, and she could figure out the answer to her question.

"I got dizzy," he told her softly, still trying to get everything under control.

"I'm not surprised," she began.  Although quite uncertain underneath, she kept her outward tone light and even teasing; she didn't want to sound angry and knowing because she knew that wouldn't help right now.  Telling Grissom "I told you so," would only make the situation worse.  "You have a fever, you probably got up too fast, you haven't eaten, and there could be side effects from the medicine you just took."

He had turned his eyes back to the floor.  He was still leaning forward, his forearms on his thighs, and taking long, deep breaths.  Sara put a hand on his shoulder and waited a few minutes in silence until he sat back.  Then she asked, "Feeling any better?"

"A little…still nauseous, though."

She stood and gave him a small grin.  "Just give me the word and we'll run you right to the bathroom."  She walked in that direction, making sure there was a clear path and that the bathroom door was open all the way for easy access.  She picked up his sweatshirt from the floor and tossed it to him.  "Put this on," she instructed, noticing that he continued to shiver.

He did, and then she added, "And when you feel ready, I think you should get settled under the covers again.  I'll get you something to drink.  What do you want?  More tea?  Juice?"

"It doesn't matter," he called after her as she left the room.

She decided to bring him both kinds of beverages, and by the time she got back to the room he was sitting up against the headboard with the covers pulled over him.

"Here," she said, placing the mug and the glass on the nightstand.

"Thanks," he offered, reaching for the steaming tea.  He sipped it slowly, hoping it would soothe away his queasiness.

She wanted to stay with him, but at the same time she knew how utterly wiped out he was, and that she should leave the room so he could rest.

She had taken one step towards the door when he said, "Sara, I'm sorry."  His eyes were trained on the amber liquid in his cup and his voice was low and hesitant.

"Grissom, what did I say about apologizing," she began, half-joking.

But he cut her off, "Let me finish.  Please."  He met her gaze then, and her whole demeanor softened as she sank down and perched on the edge of the mattress.  "I'm sorry that I got angry with you, and that I gave you a reason to get angry with _me_."  He ran his finger nervously along the rim of his mug as he continued, "You were right.  I'm in no condition right now to go down to the lab or to work on this case.  The fact that I tried to head down there myself was…frankly, pretty stupid."  He gave her a self-deprecating grin before going on, "Also, I want to thank you for trying to stop me.  I know I don't make things easy sometimes, but…well, your high level of concern is appreciated."  He hid his discomfort at the tone of the conversation by looking away from her and seeming to intently study his tea as he drank some more of it.

She wasn't sure what to say in response to his little speech, so she just smiled and told him, "You're welcome."

But he wasn't quite finished.  "I know you probably don't want to hear this, but I need to say it."  He paused to collect himself before exhaling deeply and then going on, "Sara, this case...it's important to me.  I feel a connection to it; it's much more than an ordinary case to me.  I was the sole CSI on the double fifteen years ago, and it was never solved.  Two people were killed and I wasn't able to find the one who did it.  And now that they guy has killed again, and we have a chance to finally catch him, I…"

He trailed off, and Sara could tell he was embarrassed about what he felt was his lack of objectivity and professionalism where this case was concerned.  She placed her hand on his leg, hoping that would reassure him and encourage him to go on; it seemed to work.

After a moment he said, his voice stronger, "When we finally find this guy, I may need to be there, to see it for myself, to witness it all coming to an end."

"I understand," she responded gently.  "Why don't we worry about it when we get to that point?"

"Okay," he agreed.  Then the overwhelming fatigue he had been trying to fight hit him all of a sudden with the force of running full-speed into a brick wall.  His head was throbbing, his eyes were burning, and he felt completely drained.

Sara could see the change in his body language and she said, "For now, you need to go to sleep, and I'll go call Brass and tell him we're not coming."

Grissom sank beneath the covers, pulling the comforter up to his chin.  In the few seconds it took for Sara to turn off the light and leave the room, he was practically already asleep.

Once she had stepped far enough away from his half-open bedroom door to muffle the sound a bit, she called Brass and explained the situation.  He was also relieved to hear that Grissom would be staying at home.  Almost immediately after she hung up with him, she got a call from Greg.  His normally enthusiastic voice sounded weak and tired, but he confirmed Grissom's theory about the woman found in the woods being their third, and hopefully final, victim from the multiple homicide.

Sara was fairly exhausted herself, but also hungry, so she wandered into Grissom's kitchen to search for something vegetarian-friendly to eat.  She located some cans of soup in the cupboard and decided to prepare one.  She found a meatless variety—tomato—and dumped it into a pot.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Sara had finished eating—she had decided to make some grilled cheese to go with the tomato soup, one of her favorite comfort food combinations—and had placed the extra broth into the refrigerator in case Grissom wanted some later.  She was just getting comfortable on the couch when a call came in from Catherine; she and Warrick had completed their second sweep of the Rosen house.

They had found no probative evidence of the other two murders, but they _had_ discovered some art supplies with traces of blood on them.  They had also collected the bowls Grissom had remembered from the dishwasher.  All of this had been brought back to the lab, and they were currently waiting on the results.  Catherine had sent the exhausted Greg home so the graveyard CSIs would have to rely on other technicians in the DNA lab to run their samples.  Luckily, Jo-Ann from days had been very helpful so far.  "Thanks, keep in touch," Sara said, ending the conversation.

She sat back against the cushions and tried to process the newest developments in their case.  Right now she was simply too tired to make much sense of it.  She would wake Grissom and fill him in like she had promised, but not yet.  He had only just gone to sleep, and since she didn't hear anything from the direction of his room, she assumed he was still out like a light.  Adjusting her position, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift off, too.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	13. Sleep

**A/N:  Here we go again!  This is another 'G/S friendly' chapter, for those who are interested in that sort of thing *grin*  I hope it lives up to your expectations, at least a little.  If you DO like this chapter, you have to thank my friend and beta, Grissom, once again!  The end of this chapter was purely her idea, and the whole thing was written to lead up to that 'ending.'  So we owe 'Grissom' another round of 'shippy' thanks for this chapter!  Thanks, as always, for all the reviews!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 13:  Sleep**

The muffled cries barely made a dent in Sara's slumbering mind.  But they slowly grew, demanding attention, pulling her from the grip of sleep, until, suddenly, she was wrenched from the warm confines of unconsciousness and thrust into the harsh world of awareness.  She sat upright on the couch, her heart pounding.  It took a few more seconds for the sounds to register and be recognized.  "God, Grissom!" she said out loud, fully awake in an instant.  She practically ran into his room, immediately clicking on the light.

He was thrashing around on the bed, the blankets twisted and tossed in every direction, the terrified sounds that had tugged her from sleep coming roughly from his throat.

Ignoring the slightly light-headed feeling she had gotten from getting up so fast, she reached down to carefully grab Grissom's arms, even though she knew she probably shouldn't.  At first, he fought her, his hands forming into fists as he cried, "No!"

"Grissom, it's all right.  It's me, Sara," she said, trying to calm him.

He continued resisting, but she was afraid to hold his arms with any more pressure.  She was about to let go when he relaxed somewhat, his arms now resting at his sides.  He was still muttering something, and Sara cringed at the fear in his words.  "Grissom, Grissom," she repeated, her tone soothing.  She slid her hands up to his shoulders and kept them there.  "Grissom," she tried one more time.

Seemingly reacting to her touch, he stopped moving and got completely quiet.  She loosened her grip and was going to let go, thinking he was sleeping peacefully again, when he suddenly jerked awake.  He looked around blankly, trying to get his bearings.  "Sara?" he called shakily, although she was right in front of him.

The trembling in his voice caused her heartbeat to quicken once again.  "I'm right here," she assured him.

He looked at her and blinked, his vision clearing.  Once he saw that she was there, he relaxed, exhaling deeply as he dropped his head back onto the pillow.  He covered his eyes, rubbing them, then moved his hands over the rest of his face, wiping off the perspiration that had collected there.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her voice nearly as unsteady as his had been.

He looked at her with bleary blue eyes.  "I'm…I don't…"  He trailed off, shaking his head and averting his gaze from her concerned one.

She had kept one hand on his shoulder, and now she moved it down his arm, stroking reassuringly.  "Grissom…" she began, but then she felt him moving as he pushed himself upright.  She tried to assist him, making sure he didn't shift too quickly.  Then he slid his legs off the side of the bed and sat there on the edge.

Sara lowered herself down beside him.  He didn't glance toward her—he just kept staring straight ahead.  She saw that he was shaking, and she knew it wasn't all from feverish chills.  His nightmare seemed less intense than the one he had experienced in Brass's office earlier, but Sara could tell he was still pretty rattled.  She wished she knew what she could do to help him.

"Grissom, I…" she began hesitantly.  "Is there anything I can do?"  Not surprisingly, he offered no response to her concerned query, but she pressed on anyway, hoping to get him to talk, "Was it like before?  The same dream?"

She both heard and felt him let out a long, deep breath.  But he remained silent.

"It's okay," she surrendered.  "You don't have to tell me."

She began to rise, but he surprised her by reaching over and laying a hand on her arm, silently compelling her to stay.  "It wasn't exactly like in Brass's office," he started quietly.  "That dream was more…specific.  It was almost linear, like there was logic to it, order.  It was almost like a…story."  He stopped and looked her way, an embarrassed grin on his face.  "I don't know if that makes any sense."

She nodded, encouraging him to go on.

"But just now…"  He paused, attempting to control the quiver in his voice.  "Just now it was different.  The images were more…fractured.  They just rushed by without rhyme or reason."  He lifted his hand from Sara's arm and used it to rub his eyes again.

Grissom hadn't slept long, and he still looked exhausted, so Sara asked, "Do you want to try to go back to sleep?"

He shook his head forcefully, as if he were trying to free himself from the heavy fatigue that clung to him, weighing him down like the sagging branches of a willow tree.  "No," he said.  "I think I need to get out of this room."

"Grissom, I don't think…"

"Just for a little while, Sara," he explained, looking at her again.  "A change of scenery can't hurt.  I need to stretch and move around a little."

Sara wasn't so sure, but she gave in.  "I guess you could come out into the other room and we'll find you something to eat."

She noticed that he looked almost relieved as he slowly got to his feet.  Once he was completely free of the bed coverings, his shivering began to intensify.  She glanced around the room, and then toward the closet.  Opening it and scanning inside, she pulled a green fleece blanket off the shelf.  Unfolding it, she stepped back over to him and tossed it around his shoulders.  "There," she said, smiling at him.  "Come on."  They walked together into the main living area and Grissom sat down on the couch, pulling the blanket more tightly around himself.  For someone who had claimed he needed to "move around," Sara thought he had plunked himself down into a sitting position pretty quickly.

Sara poured him some juice, and then brought it over and set it down on the table near his left arm.  She also made sure to move a box of tissues next to him.  It seemed that she was just in time as he suddenly grabbed a tissue and sneezed and coughed.  Sara thought his cough sounded better, and she was glad the medicine seemed to be working.  "What do you think you want to eat?" she asked him.

"What do you suggest?" he replied, looking up at her.

"I don't know…scrambled eggs, toast, oatmeal?"  She tried to think of bland, but substantial foods that would be gentle on his stomach.  "I could whip up some macaroni and cheese.  There's also some soup left over from earlier—tomato, this time."

He grimaced.  The mention of soup brought back unpleasant sensations from his and Catherine's detour onto the roadside.  He didn't think he'd be able to look at a bowl of soup again for quite some time.  "No soup," he said, repeating his words from the break room.

"Sorry, I forgot," she told him.  She still didn't understand his sudden aversion to soup, but she decided not to inquire further.  "So, what do you say?  What do you think would be the safest for your stomach?"

He shrugged.  "I'm not sure."

"Let's start with something simple then," she said.  "Just toast."  She moved into the kitchen area and located the loaf of wheat bread, popping two slices into the toaster.  "How about some jelly?"

He looked up from the advanced crossword puzzle book he had retrieved from the coffee table.  He had just begun a fresh page and he stopped in the middle of the first clue to answer Sara, "Sure.  There are a few different kinds in the fridge."

A few minutes later, Sara came over with the toast and jam.  He put down the book and took a tentative bite of the crispy bread.  When that went down without incident, he ate the rest of what was on the plate.  He was still hungry, but he wasn't willing to risk a possible bad reaction from his stomach.  "Thanks, Sara," he said as she took the empty plate from him.

"Anything else?"

"Not right now," he replied, turning back to his puzzle.

She fixed herself a fresh cup of tea and then joined him on the sofa.  She watched him concentrating, his brow furrowed, as he continued to work the crossword.  He would jot a word occasionally, and then go back to motionless thinking.  He seemed content to have something to occupy his mind for a while.  Sara thought he still looked incredibly tired, though, and he would shiver strongly and adjust the blanket every so often.

She knew he should probably be in bed, but she let him be for now.  Picking up the forensics magazine she had been reading earlier, she settled in next to him.  As she sipped the tea and paged through the journal, she made sure to look up frequently so she could keep a close eye on him.

They had only been sitting there for a few minutes when Sara noticed that Grissom's eyelids seemed to be growing heavy.  He was rubbing at his eyes a lot and had stopped writing in his crossword book altogether.  Suddenly, he stood, went over and looked out the window, although he wasn't really seeing anything, and then began pacing the length of the room.  He still had the blanket clutched around his shoulders.

Sara watched him for a while in puzzlement.

Then he asked, "Have you heard from Catherine?"

"Yeah," she said, realizing that she had neglected to fill him in.  "She called earlier.  She told me they took the bowls you had seen, and that they also found some art supplies with evidence of blood on them.  They're waiting on all the results now."

They shared a look as the significance of that information passed between them.

Then she continued, "And Greg matched the latest body to blood from the walls of our crime scene.  You were right about her being the third victim, Gris."

He nodded, and then resumed his restless pacing.  Before long, the pounding that had started up again in his head and the weighty fatigue that surrounded him forced him back down onto the couch.  He slumped forward, his head in his hands, and blew out a lungful of air.

Sara looked at him, slightly amused at the way he was trying so hard to fight the inevitable.  "Why don't you just go back to bed, Grissom?"

At that, he sat straight up.  "No," he said, too suddenly.  "I mean, I'm not really tired, I need to…think about things, about the case."

"It looks to me like you can hardly keep your eyes open," she replied, her tone light.

"I'm very awake, Sara.  I'm fine right here," he asserted, scooping the crossword book and pen off the table and getting back to work.

He scowled at the page of clues and Sara knew the anger in his look was really directed at her.  Chuckling to herself, she turned back to the magazine article she had been skimming through.

Grissom's act of being "fine" didn't last very long.  His head would nod forward as exhaustion overtook him, but each time he would shake himself awake.  He tried getting up again, moving around, drinking the juice, anything to keep himself from the clutches of sleep.  Eventually, though, even he had to admit defeat.

"Are you ready to go to bed now?" she asked, trying to conceal the grin on her face.  But the look of reluctance and the flicker of fear that crossed his features changed her whole attitude.  She had been amused by his behavior, thinking that he was just being stubborn and showing his aversion to being 'mothered.'  But now she realized the truth.  _He's afraid_, she thought, feeling horrible that she hadn't noticed earlier.  _What kind of investigator am I if I missed that?_ she wondered, annoyed that her skills of observation had failed her.  How could she not have been aware that Grissom was avoiding sleep because he dreaded the possibility that the visions of his nightmare might come back?  She, of all people, understood that.  She knew what it was like to be haunted by a case, to hear the screams of the victims reverberating through your sleeping mind, to wake up in a cold sweat with their cries still echoing in your ears.  She couldn't believe she had been so insensitive to what was bothering him.

_You wanna sleep with me?_

Her own words from two years ago came back to Sara now.  Grissom's reaction had been priceless—complete shock, followed by a perplexed pause while he wiped his hand over his mouth.  Then he had pulled his glasses off and asked, "Did you just say what I think you said?"  His voice had been quiet, uncertain, but with a hint of interest—or maybe that had only been her imagination.  Sara remembered that case and that conversation well:

_That way when I wake up in a cold sweat under the blanket hearing Kaye's screams, you can tell me it's nothing—it's just empathy._

The Kaye Shelton case had made quite an impact on Sara.  It had caused her the worst nightmares she could remember.  It had originally looked as though Kaye's guilty-as-sin, battering husband would get away with her murder, until Grissom had spent a frigid night out behind the CSI garage, using a pig to adjust the findings of his initial insect regression.

He had done all that because Sara had come to him wanting more—_needing_ more—from the evidence so they would be able to convict Scott Shelton.  When Sara had found out what he was doing—for Kaye and for her—she had come out to join him, bringing peace offerings of hot coffee and warm blankets.  The word 'sweet' was not often used by people when describing Grissom, but Sara knew better, knew _him_ better.  She had thought that what he did on that long, cold night was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever done for her.  She still did, even though his pig experiment didn't end up being what they ultimately needed to get Scott Shelton.  But by trying to help their victim back then, Grissom had also helped banish Sara's nightmares.  And now she hoped to be able to do the same for him.

"Come on, Grissom," she said, her voice soft and full of sympathy.  She took his arm as they returned to the bedroom.  "It'll be all right.  I'm sure you'll be asleep so quickly that you won't even have a chance to dream."

He turned and looked at her, surprised that she saw through him so easily.  He paused by the bed, still unsure, but then Sara took the blanket from around his shoulders and he slowly laid down on the mattress, pulling the comforter up over him.

Sara thought she should probably stay in the room with him, but she didn't want to push it if he didn't ask, so she turned to leave.

"Sara?" he called after her.

"What?" she replied innocently.

"Would you…would it be all right if you…?"  He stopped and shook his head as he changed his mind.  "Nothing," he finished.

She studied him for a moment.  She knew exactly what he would need to rest peacefully, but she didn't want to suggest it if it would make him uncomfortable.  That was the last thing she wanted to do right now.  But he looked so miserable—sick and worried and exhausted beyond belief—that she felt she had to offer.  "You want me to sleep with you?" she asked, a variation on her infamous question from two years ago.  She couldn't help the hint of a grin from appearing on her face.

"Did you say what I think you said?"  Grissom's response and words were nearly identical to what he had said back then, proving that he, too, recalled that conversation.

"Yeah," she began, then clarified, "I mean I'll actually _sleep_, Grissom.  I can lie on the other side of the bed—_above_ the covers, fully clothed—and get some sleep.  I can use it, too, and I think it might help you just…having someone there.  It might help keep the dreams away."

"I'm not…I don't know, Sara," he stammered.  But truthfully he felt a great sense of relief at her suggestion.  He wanted to just say yes, but he was certain it would be awkward for her.  And he was embarrassed, too.  _This is ridiculous!_ he thought.  _A grown man afraid to go to sleep…_  But he was so unbelievably exhausted—too exhausted to even think.  And he knew Sara's presence would help him sleep undisturbed—having her around had always comforted him in some way.  Even though he also knew sharing a bed with Sara was highly inappropriate, he still wanted to take her up on her offer.  _I must be delirious_, he thought in exasperation as he responded affirmatively, "Yes.  Thanks, Sara, I appreciate it.  As long as you're sure you're okay with it."

"It's fine, Grissom," she said, slipping her shoes off.  "I just want to help."  She climbed onto the other side of the mattress and settled into Grissom's king-size bed.  It was nice—roomy, inviting, the mattress providing just the right combination of softness and support.  She noticed him also shifting around, trying to get comfortable.  He rolled onto his back, pulling the covers up to his chest, and resting his arms at his sides.

"You got the light?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied, reaching up to twist off the lamp.

Darkness and silence swallowed the room as Grissom closed his eyes, because he simply _had_ to, both hoping for and resisting sleep.  Next to him, Sara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, as her eyes adjusted to the blackness.  She glanced at him every so often to see how he was doing.

After a few minutes, Sara heard him take a sharp gasp of air, and she felt the bed move as he jerked himself awake.  "It's all right, Grissom," she said, touching his arm.  "You're all right."

He looked over at her in the dimness as his heartbeat slowed back to normal, until his heavy eyelids closed again, dragging him back into slumber.

Twice more in the next half-hour, Grissom shook himself awake just as he crossed the threshold into deep sleep.  Both times Sara tried to reassure him and get him to calm down again.  Knowing how incredibly tired he was, she couldn't believe that he was still fighting his body's need for rest.  She reached over and grasped his hand, prepared for him to pull away, but thinking that sustained physical contact might help.

For a second, Grissom's hand went lax in her grip, but then he repositioned his fingers, entwining them with hers, and held on tightly.

Smiling at the touch of his warm palm against hers, Sara literally felt him relax as he released a long breath.  "Good night, Grissom," she said.

"Actually, I've lost track of whether it's nighttime or daytime."  The blinds and curtains were shut tight, preventing them from being able to tell if darkness had fallen yet.

"It doesn't matter," she replied, still smiling.  "Just go to sleep."

He closed his eyes and sank into the welcoming blackness.

Soon the only sounds in the room were the whirring of the air conditioning unit and the soft whisper of their combined breathing.  She listened as his evened out and became more rhythmic.  Once she was certain he was finally sleeping, she closed her own eyes and quickly joined him in slumber.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	14. Name

**A/N:  Here's the next chapter.  I appreciate all the reviews SO much, and I was very glad to finally be able to read them all after the software 'glitch' that this site had a few days ago.  Thanks, everyone!  I realize that Grissom and Sara don't appear in this chapter, but remember...they're _sleeping. _ *shippy grin*  They will be back next time, I promise!  In the meantime, this chapter showcases some developments in the case.  I hope everyone enjoys it!**

**Chapter 14:  Name**

Catherine sat at the head of the table in the layout room, with Warrick on her right and Greg on her left, staring at the empty spaces where the rest of the team should have been.  She felt their absence keenly, especially since while both Warrick and Greg had been able to go home and catch a few hours' sleep, Catherine herself had been working continuously since everything had begun.  She knew she had lost her edge well over eight hours ago, but she still pushed on, because right now she had to.  She was about to go over what they knew with her small 'team,' both to fill them in on any new developments and to help her think clearly about how they should proceed.

"All right, guys, let's run through everything," she began tiredly.  "We have three victims, two of them identified.  All of them stabbed multiple times.  The first one killed, Joseph Winston, was dumped in the desert.  The second victim has finally been ID'd as Jessica Rosen, the owner of the house where the murders took place."

Warrick picked up the narrative, "Our third vic doesn't have a name yet, but she was also dumped.  Her DNA links her, along with Joey Winston, to the blood-spattered crime scene at the Rosen house.  That's all we know right now since dayshift was given that case."

"Greg, do you want review all the results from DNA for us?" Catherine prompted.

But before the lab tech could say anything, everyone's attention the enthusiastic voice of Nick Stokes saying, "Hey, guys," as he popped his head into the doorway.  Then the rest of him came into view as he hobbled over to the stool next to Warrick on his crutches.  Carefully balancing on his uninjured foot, he made it into the seat fairly skillfully, leaning his crutches against the lighted table.  "So fill me in," he said eagerly, as if he had just stepped back in from a coffee break.

"If it isn't our crippled hero returning," Greg teased, a wide grin on his face.  "So you finally got wounded in the line of duty, eh, Nick?  What was it?  You tripped down the stairs or something?"

"Shut up, Greg," Nick replied, picking up one of his crutches and giving the lab tech a good-natured, but fairly hard, smack on the shin.

"Ow!" Greg whined, but his smile remained.

Catherine looked at them, her exhaustion adding to her lack of patience.  "Boys!" she chided.  Then she asked, "What are you doing here anyway, Nick?  I thought you were supposed to stay home and off that foot."

"I was, but I got bored."

"Five hundred channels and nothing on, huh, bro?" Warrick asked with a grin.

Nick grinned back.  "Yeah, even my 'Super Sports Package' let me down.  So, what did I miss?"  He looked around, noticing for the first time the absence of two members of the graveyard shift, including the boss.  "Where are Grissom and Sara?" he asked, frowning.

Having been gone from the lab, Nick was probably the only CSI who hadn't heard about Grissom's illness.

"Grissom's home sick," Warrick told him.

"Really?"  Nick didn't remember ever having heard that Grissom had missed a day of work voluntarily.  "What's wrong with him?"

"Mostly the flu," Catherine explained.  "But he caught some kind of stomach bug, too."

Nick made a face, but his tone was sympathetic.  "Wow, double-whammy, huh?  That can't be fun."

"Yeah, he's in kind of bad shape," Warrick agreed.

"But where's Sara?" Nick repeated.  "Is she sick, too?"

"No, she's just with him," Catherine said.  "You know, watching over him?"

"I'll bet," the dark-haired CSI replied, his dimpled grin creeping back onto his face.  "Anyway, what were you saying about the current case?  It sounded interesting.  And now that I'm here, I'd be glad to pitch in."

"How is your ankle doing, by the way?" Catherine asked.

"It's okay—it only hurts when I put pressure on it.  I figured maybe I could help our around here, so I took a cab over."

"All right, Nicky," Catherine said, "you can work in the lab—but only because we're short-handed.  I really think you should be home with your foot up."

"I'll be fine, Cath," he promised.  "Just let me know what's going on."

She repeated the information, or lack of it, on each of the three victims, and then turned the floor back to Greg for the DNA results.

"All right," the lab tech began, "we processed over one hundred swabs from the crime scene.  All of the blood from the walls and floor of the Rosen house belongs to one of our three victims—Joey Winston, Jessica Rosen, or the unknown woman found in the woods."  He took a breath before plowing forward, "The swabs Catherine took from the sinks throughout the house also contained an admixture of the blood of the victims.  Hairs recovered from the scenes belonged to the victims as well."

Hearing all that out loud didn't make the CSIs feel like they were any closer to finding the perpetrator.  Nick glanced around at everyone, noticing how tired they all seemed, and then asked gently, "Do we have any evidence attributed to the _killer_?"

"Yeah, we've got shoe prints and tire treads, but nothing to compare them to yet," Warrick replied.  "Brass checked with the DMV on the treads—forty-six cars registered in Nevada that could have left those tire marks.  No ties between any of the RO's and any of the vics."

Nick absorbed his colleague's last statement.  "You guys think the murderer _knew_ his victims?  Like he chose them beforehand?"

"Grissom thinks so," Catherine responded, but she didn't elaborate.

"Does that happen a lot with serial killers?" Greg asked, his tone curious, but hesitant at the same time, almost like he wasn't sure he actually wanted to know the answer.

"Well, serials often pick out the _types_ of victim they want," Warrick explained.  "Not always an individual person.  Sometimes they watch, follow, stalk, but they don't always interact with their chosen victim before they kill them."

Just then, the little group's 'powwow' was disrupted by a knock on the doorframe.  They all turned to find a woman in a lab coat standing there; it was Jamie Cohen, one of the CSIs from days.  "Sorry to interrupt," she said, "but I thought you might like to see these."  She handed Catherine a folder.  As the recipient began to skim through it, the newcomer described the contents to the others, "They're the photos and prelim on the third victim in your serial case, our mysterious woman from the woods.  Sears and I are working the evidence and Brass asked us to keep you informed."

"Yeah, thanks, Jamie," Catherine replied, a bit distractedly.  She passed the folder down to Warrick who started perusing it himself.  "She was stabbed?" Catherine asked, looking for clarification as she turned back towards the dayshift CSI.

"Multiple times," the other woman explained.  "No murder weapon found at the scene, but we did recover some fibers and a good cast of some shoe prints."

"Sneaker treads?" Catherine threw back.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"We found the same kind of prints at both our crime scenes.  Have you run them through the database yet?"

"No, I was just about to.  But we do know they're from a size 11 shoe."

Catherine nodded.  "Same as ours."

"Tell us about the fibers," Warrick said, closing the folder and looking up.

"Two were white, probably cotton.  The third was gray velour.  Sears and I got a quick look at it under the scope and it was trimodal, from car upholstery.  I left the fibers in Trace, but they were pretty backlogged."  Realizing that the evidence could be crucial to graveyard's case, Cohen suggested, "Do you want me to go back and run the fibers myself, or would one of you guys like to work on it?  It'll be a lot quicker than waiting for the techs in Trace to get to it."

Catherine glanced around at her small group.  "Greg, why don't you work on those fibers and shoe treads with Jamie?"  She turned back to the woman in the doorway.  "He knows his way around the Trace lab, but he might need a little assistance with the scanner and the shoe print database," she explained.  "Greg's our shift's resident CSI 'wannabe'."

"No problem," Cohen answered with a grin.  "I can show him."

"Thanks," Catherine said, then thought of something.  "Didn't you say you were working with Sears on this?"

"Yeah.  She's down in post with our 'Jane Doe.'  She'll come down and give you a copy of the report as soon as Doc Robbins is done."

"We really appreciate you keeping us in the loop," Catherine offered, smiling tiredly.

"We all want to catch this guy, Catherine," Cohen replied firmly, "and there's nothing wrong with pooling our resources."

"Don't let Ecklie hear you say that."

"I won't.  Come on, Greg.  Try to keep up, huh?"

The spiky-haired lab tech jumped up from his stool and followed Cohen into the hall, eager to be actively involved in furthering the case.  "Right behind you," he called.

"All right," Catherine said, facing the two remaining CSIs.  "What else have we got?"

"Don't look at me," Nick asserted, his tone light.  "I just got here, remember?"

"What evidence do we have that's still open?" Warrick wondered.

"Um…"  She stared straight ahead, squinting as she tried to remember, but her sleep-deprived mind let her down.  Glancing quickly through the original case file, the information came back to her.  "Yeah, the art supplies," she blurted.

"Right," Warrick agreed.  "Greg did all the DNA on them, didn't he?"

"Yes, all the blood on the brushes, palette knives, and paint sticks also belonged to our three victims."

"And there were no fingerprints found?"

"Just smudges," Catherine reminded him.  "They were wiped clean."

"Art, brushes, blood?" Nick asked, perplexed.  "What are you talking about?"

"Our killer fancies himself an artist," the other man explained.  "He creates abstract 'paintings' with his victims' blood."

"Paintings?"

"Yeah, all over the walls and floor."

Nick grimaced, finding himself speechless for a few seconds.  Then he muttered, "Twisted son-of-a-bitch."

Warrick nodded.  "Yeah."

"Anything special about the art stuff you found?" Nick asked, his investigative instincts kicking in.

"That's what we don't know yet," Catherine pointed out.  "Could you go research that with Archie, Nick?  The brushes and the rest of the things are still in the DNA lab."

"Sure," Nick replied, starting to gather his crutches to get up.

"And, Warrick, I need you to do something for me.  I'd do it myself, but right now your eyes are fresher than mine."  Her tone was hushed and serious, as if what she was about to mention was supposed to be a secret.

"What is it, Cath?" he asked, leaning forward.

Nick sensed the conspiratorial mood and hung around to hear what Catherine had to say.

She hesitated for another moment before filling them in, "I don't know if Grissom is ready to share, but I think I need to tell you guys something."  She took a breath.  "Grissom thinks this case is related to a double murder he worked on fifteen years ago.  He didn't realize it right away, but the blood spatter patterns from both scenes are very similar.  In both cases there were multiple murders, in both cases the killer splattered blood all over the murder scene using what appear to be the artistic techniques of Jackson Pollock, and in both cases there were no suspects.  Well, at least we don't have any suspects _yet_.  I'm hoping that will change very soon."

"So they never caught the guy from fifteen years ago?" Nick asked rhetorically.

Catherine responded anyway, shaking her head.  "No.  Grissom worked the original case solo.  I was assigned to it, but was pulled off almost immediately.  There were only two murders that time, and both bodies were found in the house where our 'artist' left his work.  Back then, there wasn't enough evidence to identify a suspect and the case was closed and left unsolved.  This time the killer dumped two out of the three victims, and only one was discovered in the bloodied house.  But Grissom seemed pretty sure that all these murders are related.  And we know that serials rarely stop unless they're caught."

"Whoa," Warrick commented, taking it all in.  "Is there anything besides the blood spatter that links the two cases?"

"That's what I need you to find out," Catherine told him.  "The evidence from Gil's original case is in the layout room, and I pulled the old case file.  Get acquainted with it, Warrick.  Look closely, read over everything.  Let's see if Grissom's hunch can be supported by the evidence."

"You got it," Warrick promised as she handed him Grissom's old file.

"If I finish with Archie first, I'll come down and give you a hand, Warrick," Nick said, hobbling toward the DNA lab to collect the painting tools.  "If Grissom's right, we have to find a way to prove it, and maybe catch a serial killer while we're at it."

Warrick turned back to Catherine before leaving.  "Why don't you sack out somewhere and try to catch a few hours' sleep?  We'll let you know if we find anything."

"Thanks, Warrick.  I just might do that," she replied with a weary grin.  She sat there for a few minutes, trying to absorb everything, but her mind was too fuzzy.  She exhaled deeply as she finally pushed herself up from the table and dragged herself from the room.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine opened her eyes, finding herself lying on the couch in the break room.  Sitting up with a groan, she squinted at her watch, but she couldn't get her eyes to focus.  Giving them a few minutes to adjust, she was finally able to read the time off her watch face.  _Two hours…_she wondered silently.  _I've been asleep for two hours?_

She didn't know how she had managed it, being sprawled out in one of the busiest rooms in the lab, surrounded by glass walls, but she was glad for any rest she had been able to get.  Briskly rubbing her hands over her face, she stumbled over to the coffee pot and filled a mug with some of the brownish liquid, which she hoped was halfway palatable.  The odds were against it around there—unless Greg had made the coffee—but right now she was really only concerned with caffeine, and lots of it.

Looking around, Catherine spotted a bowl of fruit in the center of the table and grabbed an apple off the top.  She bit into it and was about to sit down when she glimpsed Warrick speeding by the doorway.  Having seen her, he stopped, backed up, and made eye contact.  "Ah, Cath, there you are," he said, coming into the room.

"What is it?"

He was holding a folder and he tapped it against his other hand.  "We've got a suspect," he explained, then amended, "or at least a name.  Nick and Archie found out that those art supplies were professional-grade, specially made, and only sold at one place in Vegas.  Since the supplies were new, Brass got a list of the buyers from the last month and ran them against that DMV list of owners of GM muscle cars.  We got a match, a…"  He glanced at the papers in his hand.  "…Daniel Sampson.  O'Riley went out to check his last known address, but no luck, so he and Brass are trying to track him down now."

"That's great," Catherine commented, suddenly feeling much more awake.  "What do we know about this Sampson?"

"Not much.  All we've got on him is a driver's license, but the photo is kind of old.  And like I said the address listed here isn't current."  He handed her the color printout of Sampson's license.

Looking at the photo, she saw a balding man with a round face and small, dark eyes staring out from behind thick glasses.  There was something indescribably creepy and…off about this guy.  Catherine would have noticed it even if she didn't know he was a suspect in a murder, in _several_ murders.  In her gut, Catherine knew he killed all those people; she could see it in his eyes, even in the slightly blurry printed-out image.

But how she felt about Mr. Sampson didn't matter.  Catherine knew their job now was to find this guy and confront him with evidence that he couldn't refute.

"I'm gonna go back and work with Nick," Warrick said, knocking Catherine out of her focused study of Sampson's photograph.  "We're still sifting through Grissom's old case.  There's not much there, but we're going over it with a fine-tooth comb.  And, oh yeah, I wanted to tell you that the evidence inventory seems to be missing.  Do you know anything about that?"

"No, but Grissom would," she replied.  "Go down and check with Nick again.  I'll give Sara a call and let her know where we are on the case, and then I'll talk to Gil about that missing inventory list."

"Okay, see you in a few."

He left the room as Catherine pulled out her phone.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	15. Relapse

**A/N:  Another chapter for you!  I'm happy to say that Grissom and Sara are back for this one, so I hope everyone enjoys it!  And it's also pretty long—I think it's the longest chapter so far, so I do appreciate everyone taking the time to read it.  Thanks, as always, for all the wonderful reviews!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 15:  Relapse**

Sara woke up and stretched, remembering after a moment that she was in Grissom's bed, feeling his hand still in her grasp.  She yawned, having no idea how long she'd slept, but feeling more rested and refreshed than she had in a long time.  On impulse, she reached down and plucked her pager from her belt.  Illuminating the screen, she was a bit surprised to see that she had missed two messages.  She immediately checked her cell phone and saw that she had also missed three calls, all from Catherine.  _How did that happen?_ she wondered.  Both of the devices had been in 'vibrate' mode, but she must have been sleeping even more soundly than she had thought to have not noticed them going off repeatedly.

Carefully, she extricated her fingers from Grissom's and slowly got off the bed.  She walked around to his side and stood next to him.  He hadn't stirred at all when she had gotten up—thankfully, he was still thoroughly, deeply asleep.

She watched him for a few minutes in the pale light coming in through the partially-open door.  She could tell by the way he was breathing that his nasal passages were becoming clogged again; his mouth was slightly open to compensate and to allow more air in.  She made a mental note to give him another dose of medicine to alleviate the congestion when he woke up.

Unable to resist—and telling herself it was only to check his temperature—Sara leaned forward and touched him.  She had been doing that a lot lately, she realized.  _Although mostly when he was unconscious,_ she added silently, grinning to herself.

She slowly brushed the backs of her fingers along his forehead, pausing at the two noticeable scars on the inside of his left eyebrow and near his right temple.  She had always wondered how he had gotten them.  _One day I'll have to ask him,_ she thought.

She turned her hand, her fingertips now against his skin as she continued moving them down the side of his face.  She repeated the motions with her fingers several times.  He still felt quite warm to her, but not any hotter than before—it seemed that his fever was holding steady.

She reluctantly pulled her hand back, immediately missing the touch of his skin against hers.  She still couldn't seem to leave the room, though, as her eyes played over his tranquil face.  She knew she could easily stand there and just stare at him for hours, but she had to step out and return the phone calls she had missed.  So she finally forced herself from his side, unfolding her cell phone as she walked into the living room.

Catherine picked up on the second ring.  "Willows."

"Hey, Catherine," Sara greeted.

"Hey, where have you been?"

"Yeah, sorry about missing your calls.  I was asleep."

"That must have been _some_ sleep," the older woman joked.

"It was," Sara replied with a smile, remembering how blissful sleeping next to Grissom had been.  "So, what's up?"

Catherine shared with her the latest information on the case, the most significant thing being the name of their suspect.  She also told Sara that Brass was still trying to find the guy, but had no leads yet.  Then she asked, "How's Grissom?"

"He seems to be doing better.  He's asleep right now."

"Oh, okay," Catherine answered, sounding disappointed.

Sara was puzzled by her reaction.  "Why?  What's wrong?"

"Nothing.  I just need to talk to him."

"Why?" Sara repeated.

"It's related to that old case he told us about."

"What about it?"

"Warrick and Nick are looking through the evidence, but the inventory list seems to be missing," Catherine explained.  "They're trying to find a link to back up Grissom's hunch, but they can't tell if they have _all_ the evidence in front of them.  We need to see if Gil remembers enough to fill in the blanks.  It's important that I talk to him about it."

"I agree with you that it's important," Sara began, an edge to her tone.  "But I'm not waking Grissom up.  He needs…"

"I'm not asking you to disturb him, Sara," Catherine replied, setting her at ease.  "Just whenever he does wake up, have him call me."

Sara let out a deep breath that the other woman could hear through the phone.  "Sure, Catherine.  "I'll have him call you right away."  She paused, then added, "I'm sorry I snapped at you.  It's just that…I'm just worried about him.  He hasn't really slept all that much, and he needs rest right now.  I'm just trying to make sure he gets it."

"I know, Sara," Catherine responded.  "We all want him to feel better.  But we might need his help if we're going to catch this guy and put him away."

"You're right," Sara admitted.  "I know Grissom feels some sort of personal connection to this case—especially if he's right and it's related to those unsolved murders."  She considered her concern for a moment.  "So, I'll have him call you just as soon as he wakes up."

"Thanks, Sara."

"It's okay," she replied before ending the call.

Thinking about what Catherine had just said, Sara went into the bedroom to check on Grissom.  She stood there, watching him sleeping peacefully, until suddenly his brow furrowed and his breathing sped up.  She saw him reaching with his right hand, the one she had been holding earlier, and she knew he was searching for her touch.

"It's all right.  I'm right here, Grissom," she soothed.  "I'm right here."  She reached down and took his hand—his left hand, the one that was closer to her—and gave it a gentle squeeze.  Then she leaned forward and began stroking his hair, enjoying the feel of the waves and curls between her fingers.  His hair was so soft—much softer than she would have ever imagined.  She had always longed to touch his hair, to run her fingers through the inviting curls.  But before the last couple of days, she had never found the opportunity—or the boldness.

"It's all right, Grissom," she repeated softly.  Looking at his face now, at the way it was contorted in worry and fear, she thought, _If only all the people who believe that he's like a robot and has no emotions could see him now.  They'd realize he was just as vulnerable and felt just as much as they did._  A pang of guilt followed this musing as Sara reminded herself that she had accused Grissom of 'not feeling anything' on more than one occasion.  _But now I know better,_ she promised herself.  _Although, deep down, I probably always knew the truth about Grissom…I just chose to ignore it at times._

She lowered herself down next to him, sitting on the edge of the mattress.  Keeping a comforting grip on his hand, she continued to move her fingers through his hair, until he finally relaxed into quiet sleep again.

Sara was glad her presence had prevented him from slipping into a full-fledged nightmare again, but she frowned at the state of his breathing.  His inhalations of air had become even more raspy and labored, and she knew he'd probably wake up soon because he simply wasn't able to breathe freely enough.  She stayed with him a little while longer until she assured herself that he'd be all right.  Then she carefully got up, gently placing his hand at his side, and slipped out of the room.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      * 

Sara was stirring the macaroni on the stove when she heard a long succession of coughs and sneezes from the bedroom.  She lowered the heat under the pot, and then went to check on the obviously awake Grissom.

He was sitting up sideways, his feet on the floor, reaching over to grab more tissues from the box on the nightstand.  Sneezing once more, he blew his nose into the protective layers and then coughed.  Sara thought he sounded pretty terrible and definitely worse than before.  "Hey, Grissom," she said sympathetically.

He looked up at her in greeting, and then picked up the half-filled bottle of water next to the tissues and took two large gulps.  Knowing how dry his mouth and throat must be because of how he had been forced to breathe while asleep, she went back into the kitchen to get him some juice.  If he was going to drink something, she wanted him to at least get some nutrients out of it.  Also, the water had been sitting out for a while and wouldn't be cold anymore.  Returning to the bedroom, she handed him a glass.  "Here you go."

"Thanks," he replied, his voice hoarse and nasal.  He drank half the apple juice in one swallow.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

He shrugged and met her gaze, still not quite fully awake yet.

"Let's see."  She leaned forward and placed a hand gently on his forehead.  She frowned worriedly, her other hand moving to his cheek.  "Grissom, you're hot again," she pointed out.  "I mean, hotter than before.  You're not supposed to be relapsing on me."  She tried for a jovial tone, but she was honestly concerned; she had really thought he had been improving.

"Sorry," he responded.

"Grissom…" she began, half joking and half exasperated.  Hearing him apologize needlessly yet again, she seriously considered making a fist and shaking it in front of his face as if she were finally going to fulfill her earlier threat, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.  She could never really hurt him, and right now he looked so pained and uncomfortable sitting there that she couldn't even pretend she was going to knock him senseless.  She doubted he would appreciate her attempt at levity anyway.  His eyes were glazed from the lack of enough hours of healing sleep; he could hardly breathe, and his nose had become red and irritated from repeated abuse by the tissues.

"How do you feel?" she asked him, already knowing the answer.

"Clogged."

She nodded sympathetically, picking up the thermometer from the dresser.  "Let me take your temperature and then I'll give you something for that."  She placed the thermometer in his mouth, and then stepped out to take care of what she had cooking on the stove.

When the time elapsed, she checked the thermometer's scale.  "Back to one-oh-three," she reported.  "I thought so."

He sat there in silence, looking positively miserable, and she had an almost uncontrollable urge to hug him and make him feel better.  Well, a hug would certainly make _her_ feel better, she knew, but she wanted to do something that would work for him.   She wished she had something that would instantly cure him.  "What can I do?" she asked, eager to help him in any way she could.

"Put me out of my misery," he said flatly, but one side of his mouth quirked up, letting her know he wasn't _totally_ serious.

Because he was so congested, his words had come out sounding more like, _'Put **b**e out of **b**y **b**isery,'_ and Sara couldn't help but smile widely back at him, finding the whole thing rather comical.  She was glad to see that he hadn't _completely_ lost his sense of humor.  But then she turned serious once again.  "No, really, Grissom.  What will help?"

"I guess we should try the pills again.  I need to be able to breathe."

"Okay," she agreed.  She studied the medications lined up along the top of his nightstand and selected one.  "I think this is what Catherine gave you earlier that seemed to help."  She struggled with the packaging for a minute, starting to get frustrated, but she was finally able to free the two capsules from their plastic-encased, foil-lined prison.  _Child-proof?__  Try adult-proof,_ she thought, slightly annoyed.  But when she turned to him and handed him the medicine, her demeanor and voice were completely calm and caring.  "Try these," she said.

"Thanks, Sara," he replied, swallowing the pills with the rest of the apple juice.

"That should have you feeling better soon," she promised.  She brushed her fingers through his hair, moving along the side of his head to the back, where she gently clasped the wavy locks between her fingers.

After a few seconds of cozy silence, she asked, "Can I get you anything?"

"I don't think so."  He moved back onto the bed where he leaned against the headboard, closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

"Are you sure?  You should eat something."

Being all stuffed up and unable to breathe didn't put him much in the mood for eating.  He shook his head.  "No, thanks."

She kept pushing, "I'm making some macaroni and cheese.  Or maybe you'd rather have just the plain pasta?"

"Not right now, Sara, but thank you," he replied, hoping to convince her to drop the subject—at least temporarily.

"Okay," she gave in.  She knew he needed to get some sleep, but she realized he wouldn't be able to until the medication started working.  "Do you want your crossword book?"

He looked up at her and gave her a small, appreciative smile.  "That would be great."

"Be right back," she said, grabbing his empty juice glass on her way out.

As she returned to him, carrying his book and pen and the refilled glass, she remembered her promise to Catherine—Grissom was supposed to call her as soon as possible.  "Here you go," she said, handing him to book.

"Thanks."  He shifted around, trying to get comfortable enough to focus on his puzzle.

"Let me," Sara offered.  She moved around some pillows, patting them to fluff them up.  Then she pulled the comforter up to his waist.

He had opened the book, and was flipping through it to find the page he'd been completing before.

"Listen, Gris," she began as she finished adjusting the bedding.  "Catherine called a little while ago.  She needs to talk to you.  It's about that old case with all the blood spatter."

At the mention of the old case, Sara had his full and complete attention.  He met her gaze and asked, "What does Catherine need to know?  Did she find a link to our current case or a suspect?"  A touch of hope tinted his words.

Sara knew how important it was to him to close these two cases, especially the one that had been haunting him for fifteen years.  She wished she had more encouraging news for him, as she replied, "No.  No link yet."  She watched as he tried not to let the disappointment and frustration show in his eyes.  "They _do_ have a suspect for our current case, though.  Those art supplies Catherine and Warrick collected were uncommon.  They traced the customers who had purchased them through credit cards.  Then they ran that list against the DMV list of owners of the types of cars that left those tire treads in the desert."

"Did they bring him in yet?"

"No."  She was reluctant to give him any more unpromising news, but she added, "The police can't seem to find him.  There's an APB out on his car, but they haven't located it either."

"He's probably hundreds of miles away by now."

"We don't know that for sure, Gris," she said, trying to be reassuring.

He just looked at her tiredly.

"The police are still looking for him," she tried.

He digested the information then wondered, "So if they don't have the guy, what did Catherine want me for?"

Sara hesitated, worrying about his reaction to the news.  She took a breath, and then just told him, "Catherine, Warrick, and Nick are working on linking your old case with our new one, but they ran into a problem:  the evidence inventory is missing.  It wasn't with the rest of the stuff."

"It's missing?  Are they sure?"

She nodded.  "No sign of it."

He sat there and stared at nothing in particular for a full minute, giving no indication of what he was thinking or feeling.

She finally interrupted his reverie when she touched his shoulder.  "Do you remember seeing the inventory when you were examining the evidence this morning?"

"I don't think I saw it," he said slowly, trying to recall.  "But I didn't really look.  I just grabbed the folder of photos off the top.  I was focusing on the pictures of the scene, not what was in the rest of the box."

"Do you remember the details of the evidence you collected during that case?"

"Some of it," he admitted.  "It was a long time ago, Sara."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "You should call Catherine."

He picked up the phone on his nightstand and started to dial, but just then Sara's cell phone vibrated against her stomach, buzzing almost inaudibly.  Grabbing it, she glanced at the caller's name and gave Grissom a puzzled look.  Putting the phone to her ear, Sara said, "Hey, Catherine."

Grissom immediately hung up his bedside phone and motioned for Sara to pass him her cell.

"Grissom was just about to call you," Sara told Catherine, continuing their conversation for a moment.  "Yeah, he just got up.  I filled him in on the basics of what's going on.  Any progress in locating the suspect?"

After listening briefly, Sara mumbled, "Uh huh."  She blew out her breath in frustration.  "All right, well…anyway, here's Grissom."  She finally handed him the phone.

"Hey," he greeted.  "I gather from Sara's reaction that the police still don't have the suspect in custody."

On her end of the phone, Catherine frowned at the condition of his voice.  "No, not yet," she replied.  Then she added, "By the way, Grissom, you sound awful."

"Thanks, Cath," he retorted.

"No, really.  You sound a lot worse than before."  The concern was clear in her voice.

"I know."  He sighed into the phone.  "Hopefully, it's only temporary.  Sara gave me something—it just hasn't kicked in yet."

"Well, I guess you just need to give it a chance to work.  I'm sure it'll help."

He got right back to business.  "So, tell me about the evidence.  Have you and the guys found anything yet?"

"Nothing that connects our triple murder case to your old one.  But…"  She trailed off, then asked, "Did Sara tell you about the inventory list?"

"She told me it had gone missing."

"Yeah.  Sorry, Gil, we've looked, but we can't find it."

"To be honest, Catherine," he began, "I don't even know if the inventory was in there when I pulled the evidence box from the vault.  I only took the folder of photos from the top; I didn't look further inside."

"I figured that might be the case," Catherine said.  "It didn't look like you had gotten much past the photos.  You were studying them pretty carefully in the layout room earlier."

"Yeah," Grissom replied, somewhat distractedly.  He said nothing more for a while as he thought back, trying to remember the state of the evidence when he had last seen it.

"Gil?" Catherine prompted, wondering why his end of the line had gone silent.  Had she lost her cell signal?  "Gil, are you there?"  She realized she could still hear him breathing, so she just waited until he was ready to continue.

Finally, he asked, "Do you know if anyone else went into the layout room today?  Was the evidence moved in any way from where I left it when you and Sara led me out of there?"

It was the other CSI's turn to think.  "Now that you mention it, it _was_ moved," she reported, surprised at the revelation.  "The pictures and box were pushed aside to the far left corner.  You had had all the images spread out neatly, but someone must have come into the room and moved everything around."

"Any idea who it could have been?"

"No, but don't worry, I'll find out," she promised.

"Please do, Cath," he requested.  "And then see if _they_ know anything about the missing inventory list."

"I will.  But in case that doesn't solve the problem, do you remember any of the evidence you logged during the old case?"

"I remember some of the specifics, but not all."

"Okay, I'm walking into the layout room now," she told him.  "We'll compare what you remember with what was in the box."  She stopped in front of the lighted table.  Warrick and Nick had just stepped out of the room for a quick coffee break.  Before that, they had been intently studying the evidence from the old case.  Everything was spread around, but was categorized and placed into neat piles, so that it was easy to see it all.  "So what do you remember?" she asked into the phone.

"Um…"  In his bedroom, Grissom closed his eyes and tried to recall the details.  "There were some hairs.  That I remember.  They were visually consistent with hairs from the two victims; we couldn't match the DNA back then."

"The hairs are here," she told him, finding them in an evidence pile.  "Six collected—they all matched the victims'.  The written reports are here, too."

"Good," he said.  "Of course there were all the blood samples—I don't remember how many swabs I used, but there must have been close to…twenty?"

"Twenty-three, to be exact," Catherine reported.  "All here with all the serology reports."

"I think some fibers were found on the bodies."

"Check.  Four cotton threads matching the comforter in the bedroom where the girls were killed."

"Those were the main pieces of evidence I collected," he summarized.  "There was no sign of the weapon and nothing directly related to the killer.  No hairs, no shoeprints, no skin under the girls' fingernails, no finger…  Wait a second," he said suddenly.  "I dusted for prints.  I know I got a few off the doorknob that belonged to the victims, but there was something else…another print."

"Give me a sec, Grissom, I'm looking," Catherine assured him.  She was flipping through the small stack of fingerprints he had collected.  The only ones she found had been identified as belonging to the two female victims.  "All I see are prints belonging to the girls."

"No, that's not right.  I know I found another print.  We never identified it.  I lifted it from…somewhere in the kitchen."  He closed his eyes again as he struggled to remember.  His frustration was growing, along with the throbbing pain that had returned to his head.  "Yeah, yeah, it was from the edge of one of the counters.  It was a clear thumbprint.  I remember it now."

Catherine went through everything again, extra carefully.  "I'm telling you, Gil, it's just not here," she said.

"It should _be_ there," he insisted.

Sara watched worriedly as he rubbed a hand along his forehead.  She knew he didn't need to get worked up or upset right now; it would only aggravate his symptoms and do nothing to help him get better.

Grissom took a deep breath and let it out very slowly.  "All right, I guess I'll have to come down there."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea.  You don't sound up to it."

"But it may be the only way we can get this guy, Catherine," he asserted.  "We need to link him to the old homicides."  He looked up and met Sara's gaze, knowing she had overheard the whole conversation and could easily figure out what was being said on the other end of the line.  He wasn't exactly looking for _permission_ from her to head down to the lab, but he hoped she at least agreed with him, and understood the necessity of it.

Sara could read his expression and she nodded, although her face remained grim.  She knew he shouldn't be going anywhere, but she also realized his importance to the investigations right now.

Nodding back at Sara, he informed Catherine, "We'll be there shortly."

"Okay," she replied.  "In the meantime, I'll keep looking into this with the guys.  It helps that we now know _what_ we're looking for."

"Thanks, Cath," he said.  "I really appreciate everything you're doing to help with this, especially taking over the shift.  My work at your pay is _not_ a fair deal."

On her end of the phone, she smiled.  "Don't worry, Gil, I'll be making up the difference in _over_-overtime, and in the extra vacation days you'll be giving me."

Grissom almost laughed out loud as he told her, "We'll talk about _that_ later."

"Okay, see you in a bit."

Grissom was about to say "goodbye" when Sara gestured for the phone.  "Hang on, Catherine," he said instead.  "Sara wants to talk to you again."  He gave her the phone.

"Hey, Catherine," she began, but then she moved into the other room to continue the conversation out of Grissom's earshot.

The other woman already knew what Sara wanted to talk about.  "Are you worried about bringing him down here?"

"Yeah.  He's gotten a lot worse."

"I could tell by the way he sounded," Catherine commented.  "But look, Sara, we really need him here.  This isn't something Grissom can do 'long distance.'  Crucial evidence may be missing or compromised, and Gil's the only one who knows the details.  We need him or this guy might get away with the other murders."

"I know…you're right, Catherine," Sara gave in.  "We'll see you soon.  Make sure you let us know if there are any new developments with bringing in that suspect before we get there."

"I'll call you if anything comes up."

"Thanks."  She ended the call and clipped the phone to her belt again.

When she came back into the bedroom, she found Grissom sitting on the edge of the bed.  He was blowing his nose again.  After he threw out the used tissues, he picked up the glass of juice and drank some of it.  Then he pushed off the mattress and stood up, very slowly.  Once he had made sure he was okay upright, he turned to Sara and said, "I'm gonna grab a quick shower and then get dressed.  Give me about twenty minutes, okay?"

She stared at him with a hard-to-read expression on her face.

"What?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.

"Down at the lab, they all know you're sick.  They're not expecting you to look your best."

"Are you saying I can't be sick _and_ clean at the same time?" he responded, managing a small grin.

Sara couldn't help but smile back at him.  "Of course you can, it's just…could you do me a favor?"

"What is it?"

"Just try to dry off quickly and make sure you dry your hair all the way," she told him.  "You don't need to get a chill right now.  And dress warmly.  Wear what makes _you_ feel comfortable.  Don't worry about what the outside temperature says."

He was torn between being flattered by her concern and being slightly annoyed by her 'mothering' tendencies.  He decided that in his current mood he was being too hard on her; he was actually glad that someone cared enough about him to look out for him the way Sara had been doing.  He realized he was grateful, and hoped, when this was all over, he could thank her properly for all her help.  But for right now, he just gave her another smile as he answered, "I'll do my best."  He headed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Sara went back into the kitchen to finish preparing the macaroni and cheese.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	16. Boxes

**A/N:  Yes, finally, the next chapter!  I'm sorry it took so long to get this one up, but with my crazy schedule this month, I didn't get it to my beta, Grissom, early enough to post it any sooner.  And speaking of 'Grissom,' I also have to thank her for letting me 'borrow' one of her favorite methods for some extra Gris-torture. I'm glad she didn't mind me taking a 'page from her book' in this chapter and some of the chapters to come.  Thanks, Gris!**

**I do hope no one has forgotten about this story.  In spite of my busy schedule, I'll do my best to keep updating this every 4 or 5 days.  I can't guarantee that it won't take longer sometimes, but I'll try.  I hope this chapter was worth the wait, at least a little. Thanks for the many kind reviews—they are always appreciated!  *grin*  Enjoy, everyone!**

**Chapter 16:  Boxes**

Freshly showered and dressed, Grissom walked across his bedroom.  He had developed a stabbing pain behind his right eye, and he reflexively massaged his forehead above the area.  Picking up the box that contained the medicine Sara had given him, he skimmed the ingredients.  His headache had continued to worsen, and he was afraid it was about to mutate into a full-blown migraine.  It was almost impossible to tell if the nausea he felt was signaling a migraine attack, or if it was just a result of being ill.

He was so focused on reading the label of the flu medicine that he didn't hear Sara come in, even though she had knocked and called his name.

She saw him standing there, absently rubbing his temple, and she was concerned.  "Grissom?" she said, touching his shoulder.

He jumped slightly, and then turned to look at her.

"Sorry.  I didn't mean to startle you," she apologized.  "Are you all right?"

"There's a pain reliever in here, right?" he asked her.

She took the box from his hand and squinted at it.  "Um…yeah, it has acetaminophen, five hundred milligrams."  She looked back up into his gaze.  "Why?"

"I may be getting a migraine," he explained, sounding extremely tired again.  "I wanted to take something, but I don't know if I should on top of this medicine."

She put down the box.  "Why don't you wait a while, Gris?  See if what you took helps your head at all.  We can bring your migraine prescription to the lab with us in case you need it."

"All right," he agreed.

"You know, the best treatment for a migraine is sleep," she pointed out gently.

"I know, Sara, but that's just not possible right now."

She nodded, telling him she understood, even though she wasn't happy about the situation.

"Are you ready to go?" he asked.

"Well, I see that _you_ are," she replied.  In spite of her worry, she smiled as she checked out his current wardrobe:  he was dressed in layers, like he was about to head out into a crisp New England fall, instead of one hundred degree desert heat.  He had on a t-shirt, visible under a long-sleeved button-down and a cardigan.  His "FORENSICS" windbreaker was laid out on the bed, ready for him to put on over his toasty ensemble. Her smile faded as she made her next request.  She was trying to help him, but she thought he might argue.  "I really think you should try to eat something before we go," she began gently, hoping he would see her point.

"Sara, I'm…"

Before he could even finish his sentence, she chimed in again, "I put aside some macaroni with very little cheese sauce for you.  It's practically plain pasta, Grissom, and I don't think it will hurt your stomach."

He gave her a tiny grin.  "I was just going to say that I was actually hungry and food sounds great right about now."

"Oh," she replied briefly.  It was one of those rare times when Sara was at a loss for words; she really hadn't expected him to give in so easily.  She wisely decided not to question it, and she quickly ushered him into the other room and over to the table.

She put a small plate of the macaroni in front of him.  Then she served herself, sat down, and ate with him.  She had also thrown together a salad, but didn't offer any to Grissom; she had thought raw vegetables might upset his jumpy stomach.

They finished quickly, both of them anxious to get down to the lab and hopefully get the case over with.  Grissom had eaten quite a bit of the macaroni and cheese; he was still feeling queasy, but the food had been warm and bland enough to go down fairly comfortably, and had sated some of his hunger.

"Okay, are we ready to go _now_?" he asked, repeating his words from earlier.

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

He returned to his bedroom to grab his migraine medicine and his windbreaker.  When he got back to Sara's side, they both slipped on their jackets and headed out the door.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Grissom and Sara walked into the layout room and found Catherine there, surrounded by the contents of the old evidence box.  She noticed them and turned.  "Hey," she said to both, and then to Grissom, "How are you feeling?"

"All right," he lied.  "Anything new here?"

"Not really."  She exhaled tiredly.

"Can I take a look?" he asked, indicating the items on the table.

"Knock yourself out," Catherine replied, getting off the seat and moving out of the way.

He situated himself in the center of the scattered evidence and Sara sat on a stool next to him.

Catherine watched them for a few seconds as he began carefully examining each piece of evidence.  She noticed that he was shivering slightly in spite of how he was dressed.  "Do you want me to turn down the a/c for you?" she inquired, trying to help.

"No, that's all right," he responded distractedly.

"Can I get you anything from the break room?" she tried again.

This time he looked at her as he answered, "You know we're not supposed to eat or drink in here."

"I know," she replied, ignoring that fact and waiting to fill his requests if he had any.

"I'm fine, Catherine, but thank you," he assured her softly.

She glanced at Sara, who indicated that Catherine could leave the room.  "Okay, then," Catherine began, "I guess I'll go check in with Brass.  They must have made _some_ progress by now in finding our guy or his car."

"Thanks, Catherine," Sara said, then she added, "Did you find out if anyone had been in here or had seen Grissom's missing fingerprint earlier?"

"So far I haven't been able to get any information.  I was going to ask someone from dayshift, but I got involved in something else."

"Okay, I'll try to find something out while Grissom is looking through this stuff."

"Great.  Let me know if you come up with anything," Catherine replied, and then left the room.

Sara put her hand on Grissom's shoulder.  "Will you be okay in here for a while?"

"Sure," he told her, looking up from his intense work for a second.

"I'll be back soon," she promised.  She stood up and walked through the doorway.

She was heading down the hall when she bumped into Kimberly Sears of dayshift.

"Hey, Sara," Sears greeted.

"How are you, Kimberly?  I haven't seen you in a while."

"Good, thanks," the other woman replied.  "You?"

"Hanging in," Sara responded.  "Anything new on your end of the case?"

"Yeah, I was actually looking for Catherine to give her Robbins's final report.  And, we ID'd our latest victim.  Her prints were in AFIS—non-gaming work card.  Her name is Melissa Coto and she was a cocktail waitress at the Sphere."

"Great," Sara commented.  "Anything interesting found in post?"

"Nothing we didn't already know," Sears explained, handing the folder to Sara.  "Take a look.  Stab wounds—six in all, including the fatal slice to her carotid."

Sara skimmed through the report.  "Do you want me to give this to Catherine?"

"That would be great, if you don't mind," Sears said.

"No problem.  By the way, would you happen to know if anyone was in the  layout room earlier?"

"I don't know, Sara," she admitted.  "I was in the morgue for quite a while, and then the print lab.  I didn't really walk through here too much today."  After a pause, she added, "But Jamie might know.  She was working around the lab a lot this past shift."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Probably in Trace or DNA…do you want me to go find her for you?"

"Why don't we find her together?" Sara suggested.  "I forgot that Catherine's over at PD looking for Brass.  We'll have to give her this file later."

"Okay, come on," Sears said, heading toward the Trace lab.

Once inside, the two women found Sears's partner hunkered over one of the microscopes in the corner.  She straightened up and turned when she heard them approach.

"Hey, Jamie," Sears greeted.

"Hey, what's up?" she replied, reaching back to rub her right shoulder.  She also moved her neck around, trying to work out the kinks.

"You all right?" her fellow dayshift CSI inquired.

"Yeah, just sore.  It's all this leaning over and working at the computer and sitting on stools with no back support all day.  My neck and shoulders have always bothered me—hazard of the job."

"Maybe you need a break," Sara suggested.

"No,  I'll be fine," Cohen replied, kneading the muscles in her shoulder one last time before lowering her arm.  "What brings you guys here anyway?  Something new in our 'shared' case?"  She waited expectantly, hoping for progress or maybe even one of those key moments when a case breaks wide open.

Sears looked to Sara, since the older criminalist had never really told her _why_ she was interested in the comings and goings in certain areas of the lab.

"Did you notice anyone in the layout room today?" Sara asked Cohen.

"Yeah.  Ecklie was in there early this morning," she answered quickly.

Sara was a bit surprised at the speed and matter-of-fact tone of Cohen's response.  But then she realized that the days CSI couldn't possibly know the importance of the information she had just shared.

"Ecklie?" Sara repeated.  "Are you sure?"

"Positive.  I try to keep track of where Ecklie is at all times—it makes it a whole lot easier to avoid him that way."  She gave the other two women a knowing smile, which Sears returned; but Sara's expression remained serious and concerned.  "Why?" Cohen asked, her grin fading as she met Sara's gaze.

"It may be nothing, but…with Ecklie involved I can almost guarantee that it's _something_.  Grissom is not going to like hearing that Ecklie may have messed with his evidence."  She looked at each criminalist intently before continuing, "Grissom had been going through a case file this morning.  It was a cold case, about fifteen years old, that he worked.  He thought it might be related to our current case—the triple homicide you're on with us?"

The girls nodded, and Sara took a breath before going on, "Gris had been studying the old evidence in the layout room.  He was trying to concentrate on it, but he wasn't feeling well.  Catherine and I knew he was pretty sick, so we finally sent him home.  I guess it's partly my fault because I didn't take the time to secure the evidence.  I was in a rush to get him home, and we just left everything out on the table.  Later on, Catherine, Nick, and Warrick came back to look for a link between the two cases, and they realized that the evidence had been moved and that things appeared to be missing."

"Missing?" Sears wondered.

"Yeah.  The inventory list and a fingerprint Grissom remembered lifting weren't there.  So we thought that if anyone had been in the layout room, they might have seen the missing items or know what had happened to them."  Sara looked at Cohen as she asked, "Was Ecklie the only one you saw in the layout room today?"

"Yeah.  He was in there for a couple of hours."

"Do you know what case he was working on?"

Cohen thought for a few seconds.  "No.  Sorry, I don't."

"We can go and see what he signed out of the evidence vault," Sears suggested.  "That should tell us what he had been working on, and it might give us an idea of what happened to Grissom's evidence."

Sara nodded.  "Why don't you two go do that?  Log out exactly what Ecklie had taken this morning, and then meet us in the layout room.  Gris is in there right now; I'm just going to check on him first."

"Wait," Cohen blurted, obviously surprised.  "Grissom is _here_?  I thought you said he was so sick that he had to go home."

"He was," Sara replied.  "He _is_.  But we have this complicated case, and he's just so stubborn…"  She shook her head.  "Don't get me started."

Getting the hint, Sears went back to what they had been talking about.  "All right, we'll take care of our end and meet you in five," she promised, as she and her partner followed Sara out of the lab.

Returning to the layout room, Sara paused in the doorway.  She could only see his back, but it appeared as if Grissom hadn't moved at all since she had left.  Even from behind, she could tell he was completely focused on what he was looking at.  She came up behind him, then slid onto the stool to his left.  "How's your head?" she asked quietly, running a hand over his shoulder.

"Throbbing," he replied tiredly, blowing out a breath of air.

Then he turned towards her, and she couldn't keep the shocked expression off her face, even though she tried.  _God, he looks so awful,_ she sympathized silently.  Just when she thought he couldn't possibly feel any worse, his wan face showed her otherwise.  _He probably is getting a migraine,_ she told herself, shaking her head slowly.  _Just what he needs right now…_

Her urge to get him away from there, from the stress and the frustration, and the strong emotions she knew were soon to come, was almost overwhelming.  She felt a need to protect him, especially now when he was so sick and vulnerable, that was almost impossible to resist; it was similar to how she had felt after she had witnessed his nightmare in Brass's office.  She liked the feeling, but it also scared her, making her realize how much his importance to her had grown.  And if she allowed herself to care too much, she risked being hurt to the same high degree.

Somehow she overcame her impulse to whisk him away from all of this in order to let him recuperate peacefully.  "Do you need one of your pills?" she asked.  "I can go get you some water."

"Not yet," he said.  "The prescription works great, but one of the side effects is that it makes me very sleepy.  I just can't afford that right now.  At least not until we find out if something happened to this evidence."

She gave up—temporarily—on trying to get him to take care of himself.  Instead, she turned to what was on the table, hoping she could help him sort things out—the quicker they got this done, the better.  "Did you find anything new?" she asked.

"Actually, yes," he began, picking up the magnifier he had been peering through.  "I was looking at this group of reports…"  He handed her a packet of papers held together by a single staple.  "…and I noticed something.  You see where the pages are discolored immediately around this staple?  Well, if you look closely you'll see a very small scrap of paper still attached."  He passed her the magnifying lens and she examined the corner he was pointing to.  "Do you see it?"

"Yeah," she answered, nodding.  "It looks like something was torn off."

"Exactly."

"It could have been that way for fifteen years, Gris," she pointed out.  "Maybe it was stored that way originally?"

"No," he said with certainty.  "The small remnant also has the rust-like discoloration on it from the staple.  Whatever used to be attached to these papers had to have been removed recently."

"Do you think it could have been the evidence inventory?"

"It's possible," he answered.  He kept his voice even, trying not to get too excited by this development; he knew they were still a long way from actually _locating_ the missing page.

"I saw Cohen and Sears, and they're finding out what other files were being looked at in here this morning," she explained, hesitating to give him _all_ the information she knew just yet.  "That might help us figure out what happened to your evidence."

"Good," he replied simply.  Then he added, "Excuse me," as he stood up and stepped over to the counter where the tissues were.  He pulled out a couple and sneezed twice before blowing his nose.

"Bless you," Sara told him.

"Thanks."

When he came back to the stool next to her, she could tell that his breathing was much freer; the decongestant had seemingly taken effect.  He immediately went back to staring at the little scrap of paper stuck in the staple.

"Do you really think someone just carelessly ripped off an important piece of evidence without realizing it?" she asked.

"It certainly looks that way," Grissom replied.  He put down the magnifier and rubbed his burning eyes; he was _so_ tired and his headache hadn't abated at all.  He lowered his arms and met Sara's gaze.  "But who would be incompetent enough to…"  He stopped suddenly, as the only possible answer came to him.  "Wait a second…don't tell me.  Ecklie?"  His voice tightened and his jaw clenched as he pronounced the name of the dayshift supervisor.  Maybe it was the hard "c" in Ecklie's surname that made it seem like Grissom was gritting his teeth whenever he said it—or, more likely, it was the great disdain in which Grissom held his daytime counterpart.  He stood up and began pacing off a small area in front of the table.

Sara could sense his anger growing as he continued, "If Ecklie tampered with this evidence in any way…"

The rest of Grissom's threat was left hanging ominously as Cohen and Sears breezed into the room, each lugging a heavy-looking box.  They plopped them onto the table as Cohen announced, "Here they are.  This is everything Ecklie checked out this morning."

Sara smiled at the girls, attempting to diffuse some of the tension filling the room; but the days criminalists definitely sensed it.

"Is something wrong?" Sears asked, her brow furrowing.

Grissom turned toward the young CSI and her colleague.  "Where's Ecklie now?" he asked, his voice low, his right hand unconsciously forming into a fist.

"He's out in the field," Cohen replied warily.  "Should we call him?"

He seemed to think it over momentarily before taking a deep breath and letting it out gradually.  The three women watched as the stress visibly left Grissom's body, and utter exhaustion took its place once again.  He sank back down onto his stool, as he said, "No, never mind.  Let's just get started on this."  He reached over to the box Sears had set down, slid it closer to him, and then started lifting out the contents.  It was filled almost to the top with a variety of evidence and reports.  "Thanks for tracking these down, guys," he told the dayshift CSIs, glancing up at them briefly.

"No problem, Grissom," Cohen commented with a small smile, before turning intently to her work.  She began pulling items out of the other evidence box.  "Let's just see what we've got here, and what a mess Ecklie made of it."

The other three nodded grimly in return, as they sorted through the containers.

The quiet, busy sounds of the room—the soft hiss of breathing, the rustling of papers, the hum of fluorescent lights—were suddenly interrupted by the insistent chirping of a cell phone.  Sara pulled it off her hip and unfolded it.  "Sidle," she said into the mouthpiece.  After a few seconds, she added, "Oh, hey, Catherine."  As she listened, she covered her free ear and then moved into the hall for clearer reception.  Everyone's eyes followed her out the doorway before turning back to the piles in front of them.

After a few minutes, she came back in and told the other CSIs about her conversation.  Her excitement was evident at the new development in their case.  "Catherine said they found Sampson's car.  The police finally tracked it down.  It's being towed to the garage as we speak."  A small grin made its way onto her face as she continued, "Apparently, Sampson sold his 1968 Corvette to a friend.  They found this friend at an apartment building where Sampson used to live.  The manager had a forwarding address and Catherine is headed there now with Brass and O'Riley."

"Finally, a break in the case.  That's great," Cohen commented.  "Do you think they'll need some help processing the car?"  She paused in sorting through the carton, ready to throw on some coveralls and rush down to the garage if she was needed.

"I think they've got it," Sara said.  "Catherine told me that Warrick and Nick were going to handle it."

"But Nick's on crutches," Cohen pointed out.  "How much could he really do?"

"They've got Greg helping them, too, so don't worry about it," Sara assured.  She knew Grissom wouldn't rest until they had gone through every inch of these evidence boxes, and with the four of them working together it would go a lot more quickly.  She wanted to keep both Cohen and Sears helping with the time-consuming task, if she possibly could.

"As long as everything is covered," Cohen said.

"It is," Sara answered.  "What with sickness and sprains and lack of sleep, graveyard _is_ spreading itself a little thin, but I think we're doing all right."

"Okay," Cohen replied briefly, and then they all went back to silently sifting through the contents of the evidence boxes.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	17. Searches

**A/N:  Here we go!  Sorry for the delay once again, but I appreciate all of you who keep on coming back!  I hope you enjoy this chapter.  There are some more developments in the case involving the other characters, but Grissom and Sara _do_ appear before the end of the chapter.  The remaining chapters should be even heavier on the Gris and Sara interaction.  I'm so grateful for all of the reviews so far!  Thanks to everyone who has left a review or many reviews, and thanks to everyone else who is out there reading this story!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 17:  Searches**

"Thanks, guys," Warrick called to the departing tow truck before lowering the garage door and hearing it clank loudly into place.  He turned and stared at the shiny silver Corvette in the center of the large space.  It was clear that Daniel Sampson had taken very good care of his classic vehicle, keeping it in tiptop shape—that is, until he decided to transport two bloody bodies in it.  Warrick knew that he could have had the car meticulously detailed and cleaned until the sun didn't shine, but he would never get rid of all the traces of blood—a fact that worked to the CSIs' advantage.

Nick, who had managed to get into his navy coveralls, stood by the trunk balancing on his crutches, a spray bottle in his hand.

Then Greg came in, also dressed for the possibly messy work of the garage.  Warrick stepped over to his coworkers.  "All right, guys, let's get started."  He turned to the CSI-in-training.  "So what do we look for, Greg?" he asked, trying to get the lab tech to think like an investigator.

Greg barely had to consider before replying confidently, "Blood, trace evidence, and fingerprints."

Warrick grinned at him.  "Pretty good."

"Thanks."

"So let's get going."

"I'll take the trunk," Nick offered, hopping one step closer to the car.

"I'll do the seats," Greg volunteered eagerly, grabbing a spray bottle off a nearby counter.

"I guess I'll get the lights," Warrick said, realizing the prime locations had been claimed.  He walked over to the main switch and waited.  "Tell me when you're ready, guys."

Nick and Greg went about dousing their respective areas with generous amounts of luminol.  Nick sprayed all around the interior of the trunk, while Greg saturated the front and back seats, dashboard, and floors.  "Hit it, Warrick," Nick called out when they were both finished.

As Warrick clicked off the switch, the car lit up, casting an eerie blue glow onto the faces of the two men standing near it.

"Wow," Greg whispered, unable to keep his comment to himself.  While this may have been a commonplace sight for Warrick and Nick, Greg's experience with the tools of a CSI's trade was very limited.  It wasn't just the fascinating effect of the fluorescent blue that the luminol put out as it found traces of otherwise invisible blood that shocked and awed Greg; rather it was the ramifications the glowing aura held—this car had been used to transport at least one victim of a cold, vicious murder, and the driver was most likely the man who perpetrated the horrible crime.

Forcing himself into action, Greg quickly took some swabs from the seats and the trunk before the glow of the luminol faded.

Warrick turned the lights back on, and he and Greg began a careful search of the interior of the vehicle by double flashlight beams.  Balancing against the trunk, Nick performed an equally meticulous examination of that area.

Nothing much seemed to be coming from Warrick and Greg's work, but Nick easily found several threads and held them up in his tweezers for a closer look.  "Got some fibers, guys," he reported.  He squinted at the thin strands.  They look like clothing fibers—probably transferred from what the vic was wearing."  He dropped them into an envelope, which he placed on the counter next to Greg's swabs.

"Great, Nick," Warrick replied, still trying to find something inside the car.  His flashlight beam passed over the gas pedal, and he thought he saw something.  Backing up the circle of illumination, he saw it more clearly—a small patch of maroon on the left edge of the accelerator.  "Hey, Greg," he announced, "I think we've got blood.  Pass me the phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide please."

Greg picked up the appropriate squeeze bottles and walked around to Warrick's side of the car.  "Here you go," he said, trying to peer over the taller man's shoulder.

"Hold your light on the gas pedal, Greg," Warrick instructed.  He squatted down to swab the speck and check for a reaction from the chemicals.  When the end of the swab turned pink after Warrick squirted it with phenolphthalein, he knew for sure that it was blood.

Warrick smiled as Greg breathed, "Cool."  Then, more loudly, he added, "That must be victims' blood transferred from the bottom of the killer's shoe.  I remember that Grissom found a bloody shoeprint on the kitchen floor."

"Works for me, Greg, but you'll have to prove it with DNA."  After a pause, he said, "Why don't you grab the swabs, Nicky's fibers, and a sample from the upholstery to match to that fiber found on the third vic, and take them to the lab?  Nick and I will finish up with the car."

"No problem," Greg replied, scooping up all the evidence.  Although he was enjoying his 'field' experiences, he knew he could still do the most for the team behind the microscope or the centrifuge.  Humming some unidentifiable tune to himself, the lab tech made his way back to his domain.

As Greg left the garage, Warrick picked up the edge of the large plastic sheet lying nearby and dragged it toward the Vette.  Starting at the hood, he draped the sheet over the car until it was completely covered.  Nick hobbled alongside, trying to help where he could.  Then each CSI opened a door and placed a pipe-like apparatus in their respective sides of the Corvette.  They shut the doors and watched as the interior filled with fumes.  The gray-white swirls of the heated chemicals filled the space inside the vehicle, searching out oily fingerprint residue to adhere to and make visible.  Warrick and Nick shared a serious look across the top of the car as they waited for the fuming to finish.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

Catherine, Brass, and O'Riley moved into the living room of Daniel Sampson's small house after being let in through the front door, where they had hung the search warrant.  The interior of this large room was dusty and dingy, yet still fairly neat.  The CSI was lugging an ALS in addition to her field kit.  She placed them both on the floor near the door as the trio of flashlight beams bobbed around the space; they were all searching for anything that grabbed their attention.

Catherine quickly noticed a large painting on the wall above the couch.  Stepping closer, she moved her flashlight over the canvas, trying to make out the details.  It was an abstract painting, splattered with strands of different colors, but the main hue was red; it definitely appeared to be in the style of Jackson Pollock.  When Catherine's light passed over the lower corner, she squinted at the artist's signature, and wasn't surprised to find that the painting _was_ a Pollock—not an original, of course, but it seemed to be a few steps above one of the inexpensive poster versions you find the museum gift shops.  "Hey, guys," she announced to the cops, "we've got a reproduction of a Pollock here."

Brass had found the light switch, and flicked it on, bathing the room in sudden illumination.  He and O'Riley came up behind Catherine and looked at the painting with her.  "That what the walls looked like at the murder scene?" O'Riley wondered.

"Pretty much," Catherine replied.  "But with a lot more _red_."

"This guy really used _blood_ to decorate the walls?" O'Riley commented, still finding it hard to believe the stories he heard about the crime scene.

"Yeah," Brass replied.  "A real whack job."

They stood there a few more seconds before Catherine said, "Why don't we spread out and see what we can find?  If you need me to collect or photograph anything, just give me a shout."

"Sure," Brass agreed.  "I'll take the kitchen and the rest of this floor."

"I'll check out the upstairs," Catherine offered.  "Why don't you check the basement, O'Riley?"

"Okay," the sergeant responded.  He walked off to find the door that led downstairs.

"Make sure you wear those gloves," Catherine called after him.

"I'll remember," he promised the CSI.

After some time had passed, all three ended up back in the living room by the front door.    Catherine was carrying some things in a variety of evidence bags and bindles.  She hadn't heard from either of the two police officers, so she had assumed they hadn't found anything probative or interesting.

O'Riley was the first one to speak, offering his unofficial 'report.'  "Nothing special in the basement," he began.  "Some old furniture, clothes, boxes, a bunch of blank canvases and cans of paint.  This guy thinks he's an artist, right?"

"Right," Catherine replied.  "He's turned the spare bedroom upstairs into a studio of sorts.  He's got easels, canvases, palettes, lots of paints.  The brushes and other art supplies he has are consistent with the ones found at the scene with traces of blood on them.  He's even got some finished pieces in there."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what do they look like?" Jim inquired.

"A bit like the walls of the Rosen house," Catherine explained, the similarities causing a small shiver of repulsion to course through her.  "The paint is just splattered on there, and it's…well, he seems to favor red."  She stopped for a moment and saw the same question in both men's eyes.  "Before you ask, I checked and it's just red _paint_."

"He must save the paintings done with the real stuff for his murder scenes," Brass commented in disgust.

"Seems that way," Catherine agreed.  After a few seconds of silence, she continued telling the men about the rest of her findings, "I went through Sampson's bedroom with the ALS, checked the sheets and the carpets—nothing.  No body fluids of any kind.  I found a few hairs, probably his, which I collected.  Mr. Sampson definitely did his dirty work in _other_ houses.  There didn't appear to be any clothes missing.  I checked all the shoes in the closet—our Mr. Sampson is a size eleven, no surprise there—but none had blood on them anywhere.  He must have ditched the pair of sneakers that left the prints at the crime scenes.  No toiletries seemed to be missing from his bathroom either.  I took a DNA sample from his toothbrush for comparison.  It doesn't seem like Sampson was planning to go anywhere."

"That jibes with what I found in the kitchen," Brass told them.  "Dirty dishes in the sink—didn't look like they had been there too long.  And the fridge was fully-stocked.  The milk doesn't even expire for four more days.  I don't think Mr. Sampson _planned_ to leave at all.  It looks like it was a last-minute decision, made when he realized we were onto him."

"Did you check the knives, Jim?"

"I did.  They looked clean and I couldn't tell if any were missing."

"So where does that leave us?" Catherine wondered, looking from one police officer to the other.  "We have nothing that places Sampson at the scenes of the murders.  The tire tracks just prove his car was there, and we know he _bought_ the art supplies.  But we haven't found any direct transfer of physical evidence…"  She trailed off, considering for a moment.  Then an idea occurred to her.  It seemed that things couldn't possibly be as simple as what she was thinking—but there had been other cases with similar resolutions.  She smiled slyly to herself and then said, "Follow me," to the two men.

She led them out the back door and into a communal alley that ran behind all the neighboring houses.  Garbage pails and recycling bins lined the nearby fence, which formed the alley's boundary on one side.

"We still haven't found Sampson's bloody clothes, so maybe…" she began, walking to the first of Sampson's three trash cans.

"You think he just threw his soiled clothes into his own trash?" Brass asked, incredulous.

"Stranger things have happened," Catherine insisted.  She pulled the top off the pail and began digging through the plastic bags inside.  "Join me, boys?" she asked with a smile.  "There's one for each of us."

Brass and O'Riley shared a reluctant look before adjusting their latex gloves and diving into the other trash receptacles.

A loud rumble and mechanical whines drew their attention to the far end of the alley, where a garbage truck had just turned in from the street.  They watched as the sanitation workers hopped off the back of the truck and started emptying the cans.

Catherine looked back at the police officers.  "Garbage day," she commented.  "Looks like we're just in time."

"Chalk one up for our side," Jim said.

"Let's wait and see if we find anything first," Catherine amended.

The sound of rustling was heard as Catherine and the men lifted out and inspected each neatly-tied, white plastic garbage bag.  The knots were fastened so tightly that the investigators' only choice was to slit each one open—with great care—in order to sift through the contents.

When Catherine got to the last bag in her can and made the initial opening, she smiled broadly.  "Bingo," she said.  She cut the bag just enough to get to and pluck out the first item she had seen—a pair of brown pants covered with blood.  She held them up and turned them, examining the piece of clothing from all angles.

Brass and O'Riley stopped what they were doing and came closer to see.  "Nice job, Catherine," Brass commented.

"There's more."  The CSI reached in and pulled out a bloody shirt.  She handed it to Brass along with the pants, and then picked up what was in the very bottom of the sack—a pair Nike basketball sneakers, also splattered with even more blood.  Peering into the footwear, she read what was written on the underside of the tongue.  "Size eleven," she announced triumphantly.  She also checked the soles of the shoes and found the right one completely coated in a layer of dried blood.

"Looks like we found our killer," Brass said.  "Any sign of the weapon?"

"Nothing in here," Catherine replied, indicating the now-empty garbage bag.

"I guess that means we keep searching, O'Riley."

With very little enthusiasm, the two cops went back to their examination of the pungent-smelling garbage in their respective bins.

While the men worked, Catherine dealt with what she had found.  She took photographs, and then folded the clothing and garbage bags as neatly as possible, placing each item in a separate evidence container.

Catherine stood there, staring at the stained wardrobe on the ground by her feet.  Her investigating mind was working, trying to visualize what had happened at the murder scenes and what would have gotten on Sampson's clothes.  Running a hand over her chin, she said, "Jim, if you had gotten blood all over your clothes, you would have tossed them directly into the trash, right?"

"Probably."

"Okay," she went on, "we've got a shirt, pants, shoes…"  She paused, then she had a thought.  "Socks," she blurted.  "Where are his socks?"

"Nothing in this one," O'Riley informed them as he finished fishing through his final bag.

"Got a knife," Brass announced suddenly.  He rose from his squatting position, holding a long, serrated, blood-stained knife by its handle with two fingers.

"Excellent," Catherine said, taking the weapon from him and bagging it.  It was a key piece of evidence, but the missing socks were still on her mind.  She didn't like holes or things left hanging without an explanation.

"Jim, can you take this stuff out to my truck?" she asked.  "I want to check out one more thing in the house."

"Sure, Catherine," he replied.  He and O'Riley each grabbed some of the bags and headed through the house to the front.

Catherine, meanwhile, went back upstairs to Sampson's bedroom.  Turning on the ALS and sliding her amber-tinted goggles onto her face, Catherine opened the dresser drawers and started searching through them.  She ran her latex-clad fingers over and under the pieces of clothing, hunting for any sign of blood.  She found nothing, even in the drawer that held Sampson's socks, where she had been hoping to stumble across a clue.

Her eyes scanned the room, coming to rest on the doorway to the bathroom, where she spied the corner of a white wicker hamper.  She lugged the ALS into the bathroom, put it down, and then directed the flexible light into the hamper with one hand, while holding open the lid with the other.  When she didn't see anything on the top layer of dirty clothes, she flipped the lid all the way open and began to dig through the pile with her free hand.  She had gotten almost to the bottom when she finally discovered some splotches that absorbed the bluish light from the ALS.  She pulled out the pair of formerly white socks with evidence of blood on them, and smiled.  "Gotcha," she said out loud.

She bagged the socks, and then went back outside to share her findings with Brass and O'Riley.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *

In the layout room in the lab, the CSIs were still looking through the boxes of evidence that Ecklie had checked out that morning.  All four of them were finally getting to the bottom of their respective piles.

Cohen straightened and pushed back her shoulders backward, attempting to stretch her stiff muscles.  Sears stood nearby, leaning over the table, working diligently.

Grissom and Sara sat on stools, also focused on what they were searching through.  Grissom had taken off his jacket for ease of movement; as a result, he would alternate between bouts of intense shivering and the feeling that his body was on fire.  He wasn't really reading the pages in front of him anymore.  He would stare at them, trying to make out the words, but he couldn't get his eyes to focus.  The hammering sensation had ripped a path to the left side of his head now; he knew it wouldn't be long until it filled his entire head with horrible, throbbing waves of pain.

Sara turned to look at him, extreme concern visible on her face.  She could tell that he was only pretending to read each page that he picked up.  If he couldn't even concentrate, she knew his headache must be intensifying, and she could easily tell that his fever was also raging—nearly out of control.  _What should I do with him?_ she wondered.  She was seriously worried about how much more of this he could take.  Hoping he wouldn't notice, Sara surreptitiously slipped some papers out of Grissom's pile and added them to her own.  Letting out a breath, she tore her eyes away from him and went back to completing her search through what was in front of her.

After a few more minutes had passed, Cohen announced, "I've got something, guys."  Her voice was sudden and loud in the quiet of the room.  All other eyes turned toward her as she explained, "These two sheets were kind of stuck together."  She made a face as she held up one of them.  "I'm sure I don't want to know _what_ they were stuck together with, but…  Anyway, I pulled off the bottom page, and it doesn't belong with this evidence.  The case file number doesn't match, and it's also yellowed and more brittle than the newer top sheet.  I think it's your missing evidence inventory, Grissom."  She passed the sheet over to him.

Grissom held it carefully, avoiding the sticky residue.  He glanced at the number and date at the top of the page.  "This is it," he told them.

"I'm glad we found it," Cohen said.  "Does it help at all?"

"We'll see in a second," Grissom replied.  Not even attempting to read the small, typed print, he gave the list to Sara.

She skimmed it quickly.  "You were right, Grissom, there should have been one more fingerprint in that evidence."

"Well, since we found the missing evidence inventory, maybe that print is in here somewhere, too."

Even though his voice had sounded flat and tired, Sara knew Grissom was very satisfied that they had found at least one of the missing items; he was just far too exhausted and in too much pain to express it very well.  "Let's keep looking then," Sara said, trying to raise his spirits.  "We've gone through almost everything—if that print is in here, we'll know soon."

"Right," Grissom replied.  He went back to looking through the remainder of the small pile in front of him.  As long as he didn't have to actually _read_ anything, he was able to muster just enough focus to glance at each item and then relocate it off to the side if it wasn't the missing print.

After checking out a few items, he came across a fingerprint.  It was stored, as they all were, on a cardboard backer for ease of viewing and preservation.  It appeared to be a thumbprint, and he tried to read the descriptors and file number off the cardboard, but he couldn't.  All he got for his efforts were a sharp pain and harsh flashes of light in his left eye.  He groaned softly and rubbed his fingers over his forehead.  Then he swallowed hard, hoping to control the nausea that had been growing as his migraine continued to build.  "Sara, can you read this, please?" he asked in a near whisper, as he handed her the fingerprint.

"Sure, Gris," she responded, looking at him with worry-filled eyes again.  She knew he was in bad shape and that he was only getting worse.  After reading the information on the print's backer, she said, "No, this thumbprint is _supposed_ to be with Ecklie's file."

"Okay," Grissom replied.  "Thanks."

Not even trying to hide her motives this time, Sara scooped up everything that was still on the table in front of Grissom and moved it onto her own pile.

He noticed and tried to protest, "You don't have to…"

But she cut him off, "Don't worry about it, Grissom.  You're in shape to do this now."

He nodded, and stared down at the table, his head in his hands.

She lowered her voice, and added in what she hoped was a soothing tone, "As soon as we're done here, I'm going to get you some water and you're going to take your medicine.  There's no need to put yourself through this when there's something that can help."

He lifted his head and turned to look at her.  "That's the thing, Sara," he began, his voice hoarse.  "After a certain point, the prescription doesn't help.  I think I may be past that point already."

She brushed her hand through his hair several times.  "We'll still give it a try.  It certainly can't make things worse."  She frowned as she felt the extreme heat coming from his skin.  "God, Grissom, you're still so hot," she said quietly.  "We need to give you more fever medication, too.  I wish we had brought everything with us."  She moved her hand to his shoulder and then his back, where she stroked rhythmically, over and over, trying to comfort him in any way she could.

Sara's gentle touches were causing Grissom to get incredibly drowsy, and he was finding it hard to resist putting his head down on the table and just drifting off right there.  He knew sleep would make him feel better, but he also knew he still had to see this case through to completion.  Both he and Sara had pretty much forgotten there was anyone else in the room, and what they were supposed to be doing.

Then Sears called out, "Got it!" and everyone snapped back to attention.

Cohen moved quickly over to her side to see better.  The days CSI examined the print her colleague held between her gloved fingers.  The file number matched Grissom's old case, and his name was on there as the CSI-of-record for the print.  "That's it," Cohen said, grinning.  "Where'd you find it?"

"Right in the bottom of this box," Sears answered.  "I guess that moron, Ecklie, got all the evidence mixed up and this ended up in the wrong place."

"That must have been what happened," Cohen agreed.  "I mean we know Ecklie's incompetent, but to mix up evidence like that…  Not even a rookie…unless…" She paused, thinking.  A mixture of confusion and anger spread over her face as she continued, "You don't think he did it on _purpose_, do you?  He wouldn't…"

"Oh, I think he would," Sears replied.  There was noticeable ire in her voice as the realization about Ecklie hit.

"Me, too," Sara concurred.

Grissom, who was staring down at the table again, just remained silent; Sara was unsure he had even heard everything they'd said.  She ran her hand down his arm, then stood and stepped over to the other two women.  At this moment, she was actually glad that Grissom seemed too out of it to listen.  Talk about Ecklie's unscrupulous ways would only upset Grissom and make him feel even worse.

"I realize that Ecklie's politic, and that all he cares about are appearances," Cohen began, listing her supervisor's many shortcomings.  "He's not a very good CSI, and he seems to care more about what the sheriff thinks than the evidence, but still…  To sabotage Grissom's case and possibly let a killer go free?  I don't think even Ecklie…"

"Oh, I _do_ think so, Jamie," Sears asserted again.  "It wouldn't surprise me if this _was_ done on purpose.  Like you said, not even a rookie would be stupid enough to confuse important evidence—especially in ongoing cases."

Cohen was quiet for a moment, as she absorbed her partner's words.  She had never liked Ecklie much, nor trusted him, nor even held much respect for him.  But she hadn't realized that he was completely without any scrap of moral fiber.  This made Cohen dislike him even more, but he was still her boss, so she wasn't willing to express how she felt about him out loud, even when she knew he was nowhere around.  "I can't believe this," she muttered.  Off Sears's pointed look, she quickly added, "I mean I _do_ believe this.  It's just…"  She looked down, shaking her head and exhaling deeply.  When she raised her head and met Sears's eyes again, only resolve and anger were left on her face.  "You're right about Ecklie," she began.  "He's a real…"

Sara and Sears watched and waited anxiously to find out what colorful phrase Cohen was going to use to describe the dayshift supervisor.

Cohen seemed to be struggling with what to say.  "A real…" she stammered, "…piece of work."

Sears couldn't help but burst out laughing.  "That's it, Jamie, don't hold back.  Let us know how you really feel."

The other women couldn't help but start chuckling, too.

"Yeah, I really let him have it, didn't I?" Cohen commented.  Suddenly, her beeper went off and she pulled it from her belt and read the screen.  The smile that was still on her face vanished as soon as she saw who the page was from. 

Sears recognized the expression of dread on her partner's face immediately.  A summons from only one person ever made Cohen look like that.  "Speak of the devil, huh, Jamie?" Sears asked, trying to keep her tone light.

"Yeah…it's Ecklie," Cohen responded.

"What do you think he wants?" her coworker asked.

"What he always wants—an update."

Both Sara and Sears shared a glance with Cohen, and she knew just what they were thinking.  "Don't worry, I have no plans to tell him what we found," Cohen assured them.  "The last thing we need is Ecklie rushing back here, ranting and raving, and screwing up our case."  She was obviously still reluctant, but the dayshift CSI took a deep breath and opened up her cell phone.  "Excuse me.  I'll be right back," she told Sara and Sears as she headed out of the room for some privacy.

"Will she be all right giving the report to Ecklie?" Sara wondered.

"Yeah, she'll handle it fine," Sears said.  "She just hates having to talk to Ecklie, but don't we all?  Plus, she's not a very good liar, so it'll be hard for her to give him only the 'edited' version of what's been going on." 

"Sounds like she has a really hard time dealing with Ecklie, almost like she's afraid of him."

"Not at all.  I mean who'd bother being afraid of _Ecklie_?" Sears explained, smiling broadly at the ridiculousness of the idea.  Then the days CSI got serious once again.  "But I do think that Jamie may be afraid of the power he has over us as our supervisor.  She doesn't want to rock the boat with Ecklie because of the way he could just wield that power any way he wanted to.  He could pull us off cases whenever he feels like it, or even one day just…"  Sears took a breath before going on, "Let's just say that Jamie _needs_ this job."

Sara nodded solemnly, signifying that she understood.  Then her gaze drifted to Grissom, whose eyes remained trained downward.  She was thankful that he still didn't seem to fully realize what Ecklie had more than likely done to the evidence.

Sears followed Sara's gaze.  "Is he all right?" the younger CSI asked softly.

Sara shook her head and gestured by touching her temple.  "Migraine."

"Ouch," Sears sympathized.  "Those can be _nasty_.  Is that what made him sick earlier?"

"No, the migraine is just a recent addition.  He has a bunch of other things going on, too.  Right now, Gris is pretty much a walking medical encyclopedia," she described with a small grin.

"Anything I can do to help?" Sears offered.

"I don't think so, but thanks.  You and Jamie have _already_ helped by finding that missing evidence.  Now we're just waiting for the police to bring in our suspect.  While we're doing that, I'm going to get Grissom out of here and get some medicine into him," Sara told her.  "I'm going to try to get him to go home, but I have a feeling it won't work.  So, we'll see you whenever they bring Sampson in."

"Okay."

Sara took a step toward Grissom, but just then, Cohen walked back in.  She replaced the phone on her hip, and blew out a breath.  She definitely looked relieved that her conversation with Ecklie was over.

"How'd it go?" Sears asked her partner.

"As well as it usually goes, I guess.  Why does he always call _me_?"

"Because he knows that I would end up telling him to go to hell, or to shove something into some anatomically impossible location," Sears answered, a rebellious glint in her eye.

"Right," Cohen agreed.

"So what did you tell him?" Sara asked in a soft voice, turning toward the two women and facing her back to Grissom.  She knew he was very out of it, but she didn't want to take the chance of him overhearing something that would set him off.

"I told him pretty much what he already knew, I hope," Cohen began.  "That we were waiting on more evidence from the suspect's car and home, and that the police haven't found him yet."

"Come on, Jame," Sears prompted, "that's not _all_ you told him, is it?"

"No…" Cohen admitted cryptically.

"Let's go—give.  What else did you say?"

A small grin crept onto Cohen's face as she went on, "All right, I admit it.  I _did_ try to fluster Ecklie…just a little.  I told him that Grissom had mentioned some missing evidence and I asked Ecklie if he knew anything about it."

"How did he answer that?" Sears asked expectantly.

"Well, he said _nothing_ for about thirty seconds, and then he blurted something about not knowing anything about it and that evidence does sometimes get misplaced, especially if you leave it lying around.  And he went on and on.  I tuned him out after that."

"Nice," Sears replied, a grin spreading over her face.  "But wait.  How did he know that Grissom's missing evidence had been 'lying around'?"

"He wouldn't have known," Cohen said, her grin matching her partner's.  "He obviously gave himself away.  Some investigator he is."

"Not bad, Jame," Sears commented.  "You keep at it.  Pretty soon I'll have shown you how to treat Ecklie with all the disrespect he deserves.  Even if he _is_ our supervisor."

"Easy now, Kimmer.  I think you've _already_ corrupted me enough."

"I'm working on it," Sears promised, still smiling.

Shaking her head, Sara wondered, "I don't know how you guys work with Ecklie."

Sears shared a familiar look with her colleague, then explained, "You don't work _with_ Ecklie, Sara, you work _in spite of_ him."

"I'm sure you do," Sara agreed, giving the girls a quick grin.  Then she turned around and looked over at Grissom.  He was still sitting in the same exact position, with his head down.

Sears tapped the recovered fingerprint against her palm.  "Why don't you go take care of Grissom?" she suggested to Sara.  "Jamie and I will clean up in here and then bring this print down to Jacqui.  Whenever the cops process Sampson, she can do a comparison and match his print."

"All right.  Thanks, guys," Sara said to the other women, but she kept her eyes trained on Grissom.  She stepped over, dropping onto the stool next to him again.  Placing a hand on his shoulder, she called, "Gris?"

It took a moment for her voice to register, but when it did, he glanced up at her.

She hated seeing the pain in his unfocused eyes, and not knowing what she could do to take it away.  "We're done here, so let's go," she urged gently.

"What about Ecklie?" Grissom wondered.

"What about him?"

"You were just discussing him.  What did he say about the evidence?"

"He said he didn't know anything about it," Sara reported, not wanting to get into the details with him right now.  "Come on.  Let's get you some water so you can take your medicine."  She took his arm and slowly helped him to his feet.  He seemed a bit unsteady, so she made sure to keep a firm grip on his arm as she led him out of the room.

Sears and Cohen turned to the papers and items scattered across the table and began to organize them.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	18. Interminable

**A/N:  Here's another new chapter after a longer than usual wait.  But at least it's not as much of a time lapse as last time.  I have to thank my wonderful beta, Grissom, for that!  She's the best!  Thanks, Gris, for the quick work despite your busy week!  *big grin*  Once again, I appreciate everyone who is reading this and sticking with it through the delays.  I know this chapter is kind of short, but I hope everyone likes it!  Thanks for all the reviews!  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 18:  Interminable**

_The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,_

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep…___

That familiar stanza of poetry had somehow wound its way into Grissom's pain-filled mind and had refused to leave.  The final line kept reverberating through his head, becoming a mantra of sorts that seemed to describe exactly how he felt.  Sleep was a distant destination for him right now; it seemed almost interminably far away.  Although his body was begging for rest, he wouldn't give in, not yet.  They were simply too close to the resolution of these cases.

He had situated himself on the break room couch—his head leaning back against the cushions, his eyes closed and covered with his right hand—away from the other CSIs who were all sitting around the central table.  It was unusually quiet in the room, especially with such a large group of people there.

The entire graveyard shift was present, along with current 'honorary' members, Cohen and Sears.  Some of them were eating or drinking, some were having muted conversations, some were seemingly lost in their own thoughts, but _all_ of them were exhausted.  They were on their second or third shifts in a row, and the long hours had taken their toll.  Right now all they could do was wait, and it was difficult and frustrating.  It was an uncommon situation that the criminalists found themselves in:  they had the evidence they seemed to need to convict Daniel Sampson of five murders, but the suspect himself had proved an elusive catch for the police department.  So they remained sitting there together, hoping for some progress in Brass's search.

It could easily have been the utter exhaustion pervading the room that was keeping the noise level down; but more likely it was the fact that all the CSIs were trying very hard not to disturb Grissom.  Everyone had immediately noticed that the night shift supervisor looked terribly unwell, and the way he was sitting made it appear that he was asleep.

Sara, however, knew otherwise; she was certain that Grissom was awake.  Even though he _should_ have been sleeping, she knew that he was fighting it.  He was just trying to make it through the waiting like the rest of them.

Sara turned away from the table and studied Grissom for a long moment.  It was obvious to her that he was in agony.  At her insistence, he had finally taken one of his migraine pills; that had been quite a while ago, and it hadn't seemed to have any effect yet.  Despite repeated offerings, he had refused to eat or drink anything besides the sip of water he had taken to swallow the pill, and Sara was worried about keeping him hydrated, especially with his fever as high as it was.   She continued looking at him, silently wishing she could help.

But Grissom was oblivious to her concerned stare. Slumped on the sofa, he was struggling to stay awake and aware as the dull throb of the migraine mercilessly assaulted the inside of his head.  And although the pain was nearly debilitating, he was actually focusing harder on trying not to throw up in front of his entire team as the pressing surges of nausea churned through his stomach, continuing to strengthen.  He shifted slightly, hoping to find a more comfortable position, but it was impossible.

Sara was having a difficult time paying attention to anything but Grissom, so she finally gave up trying and went over to him.  She sat by his side, knowing he was unaware of her presence.  "Gris?" she said very softly, placing a hand on his arm and sliding it up to his shoulder.  "Hey, Gris?"  She gave him a very light shake.

"Miles to go before I sleep," he mumbled, turning his head slightly toward her.

"What?" she said, her voice just a touch louder.

"Huh?" he replied.  He removed his hand from his eyes and squinted at her, trying to focus; the overhead lighting sent searing stabs of pain into his eyes.  "Sara?" came from his dry throat when he finally realized she was there.

She nodded and gave him a little smile.  "Robert Frost," she said.

"What?" he asked blankly.

He looked completely confused, and her urge to take care of him grew even more.  She was finding it hard to deal with the fact that she hadn't been able to make him feel better.  "You were quoting a Robert Frost poem," she explained gently, running her hand up and down his arm.  "_Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_.  You know, 'But I have promises to keep/ And miles to go before I sleep'?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding slowly and sitting up a little straighter.  He rubbed his temple.  "Those lines just kind of made their way into my head and stayed there."

"Well, I think the last line probably describes how we're all feeling right now.  We're so close and yet still so far from nailing Sampson."

"Yeah," Grissom agreed.

Sara studied his face, noticing that he was even paler than before and that his features were tensed into a mask of constant pain.  "Didn't your pill help at all?"

He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly to combat a fresh wave of nausea.  "I'm afraid not," he admitted.

"I'm sorry you still feel so bad," she told him quietly.  She was keeping her voice as soft as possible, knowing that loud sounds would only make his headache worse.  "I know I keep asking this, but you _will_ tell me if there's anything I can to help you, right?"

"There's really nothing you _can_ do, Sara," he replied tiredly.  "But I appreciate your offer."

"No problem," she assured him.  "Just please tell me if you need anything."

"I will."  He reached for her free hand and gave it a weak squeeze.

Attempting to be discrete, but truthfully not caring if anyone saw, Sara touched his forehead, and then slowly moved her fingers down the side of his face.  He was as hot as he had been when she and Catherine had pulled him from the layout room yesterday.  "We need to give you something for this fever," she told him.  "I'll ask around.  I'm sure someone has Tylenol or Motrin on them or stashed in their locker.  "I'll be right back."  She stood and went back to her coworkers at the table.

Grissom leaned back and resumed his previous position on the couch.  He quickly placed a hand over his closed lids again—the lights were really wreaking havoc with his already stinging eyes.

A few minutes later, Sara returned from her successful trip to the locker room, carrying a small plastic bottle in her hand.  Greg came in right behind her.

"Finally finished it all!" the lab tech announced, dropping into the chair that Sara had vacated earlier.  "I got through all the DNA from Sampson's clothes, his car, and the knife."  Greg's voice was extremely loud in the nearly-silent room; over on the sofa, Grissom winced, and moved his fingers over his forehead, trying to massage away the escalating pain.

"Keep it down, Greg!" Catherine warned in an angry whisper.

"What?" he said, just as loudly, and still not comprehending.  He glanced around the table, finding five sets of stern eyes glaring at him.  When he got back to Catherine's face, he watched as she jerked her head toward where Grissom sat.  Greg looked that way, took in Grissom's position, and it finally dawned on him.  "Oh, sorry," he added, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper.  "I didn't realize the boss was sleeping over there."

"He's not sleeping, Greg," Sara told him.  Her voice was quiet, yet held obvious annoyance aimed at the lab tech.  "But he has a horrible headache, so shh!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry.  I really didn't know."  The normally eager young man looked properly chagrined and sounded truly apologetic, so Catherine softened her attitude toward him as she said, "It's all right, Greg.  Now what were you saying about the DNA?"

"Oh, yeah."  His enthusiasm and smile came back, though he remembered to keep the level of his voice low.  "I finished everything you brought in, plus what we found in the car.  All the DNA matches the victims', including the blood on the knife.  The fibers from the car also match the fibers we found on the third victim.  It all fits.  There's no way Daniel Sampson _didn't_ kill those people."

Catherine considered for a moment.  "It may not be as airtight as we think.  Do we have anything that _directly_ and _irrefutably_ links Sampson to being present at the crime scene?"

"You mean _besides_ the blood all over his clothes and car, and his shoeprints found at two of the scenes?" Greg asked, the sarcasm evident in his hushed voice.

"How do we know they were _his_ clothes and _his_ shoeprints?  And couldn't somebody else have been driving the car?"

Greg started to respond immediately, but then stopped and thought; it was rare for the young technician to try to control his impulsive nature like this.  "I see what you're saying, Catherine," he began after a few seconds.  "But it would be an incredibly _huge_ coincidence if Sampson wasn't the owner of those bloody clothes and shoes, especially since they were found in _his_ trash."

"I know that, Greg, but signature killers are usually very intelligent—that's what makes them so dangerous.  I wouldn't put it past Sampson to deny knowledge of the clothes and the knife," she told him.  "So we need to make sure we have something else that he _can't_ deny…"  She trailed off into thought, then smiled.  "Greg, go back and check Sampson's shirt for DNA—the _inside_ of his shirt," she clarified.  "Check around the collar.  If he sweated while wearing it, there could be enough DNA there for a match."

"You got it," Greg replied, jumping out of the chair again and feeling reenergized.

"I'll go check with Jacqui," Catherine added, also standing up.  "Maybe she got a print off the knife or trash bags."

Sara watched them leave the break room, and then continued on her path to Grissom.  "Here you go," she said, gently touching his arm to get his attention.

When he slowly turned his head and cautiously opened his eyes, she held up the pain relievers.  She shook two into his palm and told him, "Take these.  They should help."  She handed him his barely-touched bottle of water, and he obediently swallowed the pills.

His stomach lurched in protest and he quickly lifted his head from the sofa cushion.  He grimaced, waiting to see if the medicine would _stay_ down.  When his stomach settled into its rhythm of queasy, but less urgent swells once again, Grissom leaned back and closed his eyes.  "Thanks, Sara," he offered in a pained whisper.

"Sure.  I hope they work," she replied.

"Me, too," he said, and then exhaled deeply.

Sara began stroking his arm again, wishing she could do more to console him.  "Are you sure you won't let me take you home?" she asked softly, repeating a discussion they had had earlier.  "You could get some sleep, and Catherine could call when they have Sampson in custody."

"It won't work, Sara," he pointed out, his voice wispy.

They both knew very well that once he ultimately went down, he would be out of it for a _long_ time.

"Then what about going to your office?" she tried.  "I know you don't have a couch in there, but it's dark and quiet.  It might be better for you to relax in there while we wait."

He was silent for a while, and she didn't know if he was considering her suggestion, or was so focused he hadn't heard her, or had actually drifted off.

Sara almost jumped in surprise when he finally said, "My office sounds like a good idea."

She was glad he was willing to go somewhere where he could at least rest more comfortably.  She wished he had a couch in his office so he could lie down, but she still thought the peace and solitude would help.

She was just about to help him up when Catherine came back in, looking more excited than she had been since their latest case had begun.  "I just got a call from Brass," she announced to everyone at the table, taking care not to speak too loudly.  "They just nabbed Daniel Sampson outside of Henderson, and they're bringing him in.  They should be here in about a half hour."

Grissom and Sara overheard the news and a satisfied glance passed between them.  She knew that there would be no getting him into his office now.  He'd want to stay where the action was, no matter how badly he felt.

An energetic buzz spread through the well-populated break room.  Everyone suddenly seemed a lot more awake and they were talking animatedly among themselves—although they still managed to keep down the din out of deference to Grissom.

Sara settled comfortably next to Grissom on the couch.  They could both hardly believe this long drawn-out ordeal was nearly over.  To be more exact, Sara felt extremely relieved.  Watching Grissom close his eyes and cover them with his fingers again, she hoped this whole thing would come to a quick and simple end.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	19. Time

**A/N:  Well, finally, here it is:  the next chapter of 'No Rest for the Weary.'  I know it's been a long time since I updated this story, but I guess real life just got in the way, as it often does.  I was on vacation, and then my beta was on vacation, and I guess time just got away.  There's only one more chapter left after this, though, and then the story will be all wrapped up!  Once again, I have to thank every single reader who has posted a review so far, and I ****_especially_ thank the three of you who left reviews during the _long_ interim between chapter 18 and this one.  Thank you so much for letting me know that folks out there were watching this story and waiting for updates.  I never had any intention of dropping this story.  I always meant to continue, and ultimately finish, it—it just took much longer than I ever would have thought! *grin*  So, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter after the long wait!**

**Chapter 19:  Time**

Grissom and Sara walked into the observation room.  They sat down on chairs facing the large pane of glass that looked into the interrogation room and waited for Daniel Sampson to be brought in.  Glancing over at Grissom, Sara thought that he looked a bit better.  At least it no longer appeared that he was about to pass out or vomit at any second.

A few minutes passed, and then Cohen and Sears came in, taking up positions leaning on either end of the long table that was behind where Grissom and Sara sat.  "Hey," the dayshift CSIs greeted.

"Hey," Sara returned.  "Glad you two could join us."

"We wouldn't have missed this," Sears assured her.

Their attention was drawn straight ahead as they all noticed flickers of movement in the adjacent room.  They heard Brass's voice over the microphone pickups as he, Catherine, Warrick, and Daniel Sampson filed in.  "I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown from the crime lab."

The suspect had taken up a position sitting at the table with his back to the CSIs in the observation room.  They could only see the ratty flannel shirt he wore and the back of his balding head.

Brass was continuing, "Do you know why you're here, Mr. Sampson?"

"No," Sampson answered simply.

"No?" Brass repeated.  He was trying to keep his tone civil, but his anger and revulsion were boiling just below the surface.  "Four police officers pull you out of your motel room and drag you down here, and you have no idea why?"

"No.  But if you'd tell me, I'll do what I can.  I always want to help out the authorities."  Sampson's gaze was cool and unemotional as he regarded Brass.

Catherine could sense that the police captain's patience was just about to snap, so she stepped in, sliding some photos across the table to Sampson.  "Do you recognize any of these people, Mr. Sampson?"

He shuffled through the stack, glancing at each picture.  Not even the slightest flicker of recognition broke the controlled expression he wore.  "I'm sorry, Ms. Willows," he said, emphasizing Catherine's name, "but I've never seen any of these people before."

"Are you sure?"

Sampson nodded.

"What about their names?"  She took the photos back from him and arranged them in a row on the table, facing the suspect.  She pointed to each one and ticked off the names of the victims.

"That still doesn't help," Sampson claimed.

"Okay," Catherine said, her frustration building.  But she kept her calm outer exterior as she scooped up the pictures of the victims.  Pulling two new 8 by 10's out of the folder in front of her, she placed them down on the table.  "What about these clothes?  Do you recognize _them_?"

Sampson seemed to be completely unaffected by the blood-covered state of the shirt and pants in the photos.

"Still nothing, Mr. Sampson?" Catherine asked.

"I'm afraid not."

"That's interesting," Catherine commented, "because these clothes were found in the trashcans outside your house."

A slight widening of his eyes was the only sign Sampson gave that Catherine was getting to him.

The observant CSI noticed, though, and sat down, deciding on her next move.  Stealing a glance under the table, she made her decision.  Wearing a small, unreadable smile, Catherine asked, "May I see your shoes, Mr. Sampson?"

"Excuse me?" the man across the table replied.

"Your shoes.  May I see them?"

Sampson looked uncertain, but decided he'd better play along.  "How do you want me to…?" he questioned.

"Just removing one and passing it over here would be fine," she explained.

He did as she had requested.  Catherine picked up the nearly spotless sneaker and looked it over.  She held it up for Warrick, who was standing behind her, to see.  A raised eyebrow was his only comment.

"Nice," Catherine said, to no one in particular.  Then her attention turned to Sampson.  "They look brand new."

"I just bought them a couple of days ago."

"Size eleven," Catherine said casually, handing the shoe back to the suspect.

"Yes, they are," he replied.  He looked at the female CSI with just the tiniest hint of suspicion in his eyes.

There was silence as Sampson replaced his sneaker on his foot.  Then Catherine asked, seemingly out of nowhere, "What did you do with the old ones?"

The suspect appeared confused.

"What did you do with your old pair of sneakers?" Catherine clarified.  "The ones you bought this new pair to replace?"

After an almost unnoticeable hesitation, Sampson answered, "I gave them away."

"Really?" Catherine replied, incredulously.  "Because we found an old pair of sneakers in your garbage, too."  She slid a photo out of the folder--one she had purposely _not_ shown him before.  "They were a size eleven, just like the ones you have on now," she continued.  "But, _unlike_ the ones you're wearing, Mr. Sampson, these sneakers were covered with blood."  She placed the photo on the table in front of him.  "And prints made by this exact pair of shoes were found at two crime scenes."

Sampson remained stoically silent.

Catherine just went on, "Your garbage cans contained a wealth of fascinating items, Mr. Sampson.  Including this knife, also stained with blood."  She showed him a file photo of the weapon that Brass had discovered.  "You might be interested to know that we ran tests on all this blood, and it came from some murder victims who were killed in Henderson.  Do you remember the photos I showed you earlier?  Well, the blood on these clothes, shoes, and knife belong to three of those people."

"Just because those items were found in my trash, Ms. Willows," Sampson replied coolly, "doesn't mean _I_ put them there."

"That's true," Catherine agreed, wearing a humorless smile.  She thought of what she had told Greg earlier.  _Guess I was right about this guy.  Smart…_  "But we also found other bloody clothing that was _not_ in your trash."  She paused dramatically, then showed him the photo of the socks she had discovered.  "I found these in the bottom of your hamper, Mr. Sampson," she explained.  "Are you going to tell us that you don't recognize these either?"

Sampson didn't break down and confess, but he also didn't deny knowledge of the blood-splattered socks.  He just sat there, glaring at Brass and the CSIs, seemingly silently daring them to go on.

So Warrick stepped up to the table, pulling pictures out of his copy of the case file.  "We also found evidence of blood in your car," he began, diving right in with no preliminary setup or introduction.  He showed Sampson the pictures.  "Someone had attempted to clean it, but we still found traces of blood in the trunk, on the back seat, and on the gas pedal.  It matched our three victims, too."

"That's not my car," Sampson asserted, glancing quickly at the images.  "I sold it to an acquaintance of mine, Marty Stout."

"Yes, we know that," Warrick went on.  "We got the car from Mr. Stout and processed it in our garage."

"The car hasn't been in my possession since I sold it to Marty," Sampson answered unemotionally.

"And when, exactly, did you sell it to Mr. Stout?" Warrick asked, trying to keep his irritation in check.

"Four days ago," Sampson informed them.

Catherine stepped forward again.  "You're certain of that time frame?" she asked.

"Absolutely.  I have the bill of sale somewhere, if you would like to see it."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Sampson, but thanks anyway," Catherine said, obvious sarcasm edging her words.  "You say you sold your car to Mr. Stout four days ago.  Well, we have an entomologist who studied the insects on Joey Winston's body and he calculated that Joey had been dead for five days when we found him; that was nearly three days ago.  So, Mr. Sampson, that means that Joey was killed and dumped in the desert almost eight days ago--when the car was in _your_ possession."

For the first time since he had arrived, Sampson seemed shaken.  His stoic façade melted away, leaving glazed anger in his eyes.  He stared at Brass and the CSIs, but said nothing.

"That's okay, Mr. Sampson," Catherine said, quiet satisfaction ringing in her tone.  "You don't have to say anything.  The evidence says it all for you."

At that moment, there was a knock on the interrogation room door.  Brass walked over and opened it.  Greg stood on the other side, holding a folder and looking keyed up, but obviously trying to rein in his excitement.  He peeked into the room and caught Catherine's eye.  He made a subtle gesture with his head to let her know he needed to see her.  She caught on and stepped outside for a moment, telling Brass, "Be right back," as she moved past him.

"What's up, Greg?" she asked the lab tech once they were safely out in the hall with the door closed behind them.

"I got some DNA off the shirt—there was sweat present, just like you said—and it matches the sample from Sampson's toothbrush that you had brought in."

"Great," Catherine replied.  "I knew we'd get him."

She turned to go back into the interrogation room, but Greg spoke again, stopping her.  "There's something else, Catherine."  His voice sounded unusually hushed and serious.

Catherine faced him once more.

"I was looking over the knife--you know just to make sure I hadn't missed anything?" Greg explained.  "And I found another blood stain.  It was small, almost hidden under the knife handle, and it looked old.  I ran some tests and it matches one of the victim's from Grissom's fifteen-year-old case."

"Excellent, Greg," Catherine said.  "Now we have something to link Sampson to the old murders, too.  That, plus Grissom's unknown thumbprint, is all we'll need."  She took the folder from him.  "Good work, Greg.  Really good work.  Thanks," she added sincerely.

Catherine's compliment caused an embarrassed grin to find its way onto Greg's face as he watched her return to the room.  He retreated back to his lab, glad to have made a significant difference in the investigations.

She handed the new folder to Warrick and took up her previous position, facing Sampson down from across the table.  Warrick took a look at Greg's new findings.

"Well, Mr. Sampson," she began.  "Our lab technician did some more tests and we found _your_ DNA on the collar of that bloody shirt."  She paused to let that sink in.  "So, now that we know the bloody items found in the trash actually _do_ belong to you, do you have anything you'd like to tell us?"

As he glanced around the small room, Sampson's eyes moved from one person to another but they never lost their outward calmness, even as a curtain of blankness descended over them.  When he spoke again, his voice was completely devoid of emotion.  "It was time," was all he said.

Catherine and Warrick stared at him, then at each other.  When it was clear that Sampson wasn't going to be forthcoming with any more information, Catherine tried to prompt him.  "It was time for what?" she asked.

He remained silent, and Catherine changed her approach.  She brought out the photos of the two victims from Grissom's original crime scene again.  "Do you still claim not to know these women, Mr. Sampson?" she inquired.

His eyes dropped toward the table, and he seemed to be studying the pictures again, but Catherine wasn't even sure he was truly _seeing_ them.  He looked back up, a tinge of madness apparent in his glazed eyes, and said, "I waited.  And then it was time again."

Catherine figured that was about all they were going to get out of him, but it didn't matter.  She knew the evidence they had was strong enough to convict him of all five murders.  She turned to Brass and was about to suggest that Sampson be escorted out and placed under arrest, when the suspect spoke again.  "There was supposed to be another one, you know," he began.  "The first time?  Three.  It was supposed to be _three_."

The two criminalists and Brass froze and listened as Sampson gave them details they hadn't known they had missed.

"There was going to be a third," Sampson continued.  "I had her picked out.  But the investigator was getting too close."

Brass, Catherine, and Warrick shared an intense glance as they all immediately realized Sampson was referring to Grissom.  Their eyes automatically drifted to the mirrored window they knew Grissom was sitting behind.

But Grissom was completely unaware of their concerned looks, and of what Sampson was saying as he continued his rambling confession.  The nightshift supervisor had had to give up listening as the overwhelming pain in his head had grown.  First his ears had filled with a buzzing and his vision had blurred.  He had dropped his head down and stared intently at the floor as he attempted to drive back the anguish, even just a little.  But the intensity of the pain had only increased and he had been forced to close his eyes tightly against the fierce onslaught.  His hands had automatically gone to his head in a futile effort to massage away the pain.  Now all he could hear was the rushing of his own blood through his ears, and all he could see was the red-tinged blackness behind his closed lids.

Then, sudden, intense surges of nausea flooded his stomach, quickly increasing to a powerful level he knew he couldn't ignore or control for very long.

The three CSIs around him stood, seemingly hypnotized as they stared straight ahead through the one-way window, listening to Daniel Sampson's twisted words.  Cohen finally averted her eyes and swallowed hard against the unexpected churning in her stomach.  The coldness with which Sampson was relating more details of his killings was making her feel physically ill.  But when she glanced over at Grissom, her own queasiness was quickly forgotten; he looked terrible—even worse than earlier.  "Hey, are you all right?" she asked quietly, touching his shoulder.

He glanced up at her and she knew, without a doubt, that he wasn't all right, not at all.

Becoming more concerned, Cohen stepped over and nudged her partner.  When Sears looked her way, Cohen indicated Grissom's appearance.  "He does _not_ look good," she whispered to the younger CSI.

By this time, Sara had realized something was going on behind her and she pulled her eyes away from Sampson's interrogation.

"Sara," Sears said, directing her attention to Grissom.

Once Sara fully focused on him, she recognized the greenish-gray pallor of his skin right away.  She took his arm, rapidly helping him to his feet.  "You're going to be sick?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

He moved his head just slightly, which was close enough to an affirmation for Sara to be certain she had to hurry him out of the observation room.  "Come on," she said, trying to be gentle, but forceful, at the same time.

She led him down the hall, not caring where they ended up as long as it was in time and there was some kind of receptacle in the vicinity.  She knew the bathrooms were nearby—she hoped close _enough_.  They rounded a corner and the men's room was right there.  The ladies' room was down a little further, but if that one had come first, she would have taken him in there; at this point, speed had become the sole determining factor.  She pushed open the door and dragged him inside.

Grissom rushed into the first stall, dropped to his knees, and began retching violently.  Sara cringed, sympathy for him flooding through her.  She stood there in the middle of the men's bathroom, unsure what to do.  She wanted to stay and take care of him, but at the same time she wanted to try and leave him with some semblance of dignity.  She finally decided on the latter and stepped back out into the hall.  The door closed and she began pacing back and forth in front of it.

After a few minutes, she heard the muffled sound of a toilet flushing, and then the faint squeak and rush of one of the sinks being turned on.  She waited several more seconds, and then walked back inside.  She found Grissom bent over the far sink; he was collecting double handfuls of water and lifting them to his face.  After splashing the cold liquid onto his face and wetting down the back of his neck, he turned off the faucet.  But he didn't straighten up; he remained there, leaning over and staring into the basin as the excess moisture dripped off his face, and blowing out the water that had gotten into his mouth.

Sara handed him a couple of paper towels and he dabbed at his wet face.  She ran a hand up and down his back.  "You all right?" she asked softly.

He looked at her, and his eyes were extremely weary, yet still held a touch of annoyance and disbelief.

"I'm sorry, I know that's the stupidest question ever," she said, giving him a small grin.  She moved her hand to the side of his face and then began stroking his damp hair.  "Are you ready to go?" she ventured carefully.

After a second, he nodded, finally standing up straight.  She took his arm and they went back into the hall.  Sara was glad that no one else had entered the bathroom while they had been in there; it would have only created an even more awkward situation.  Unfortunately, that feeling left quickly as she noticed a familiar figure walking briskly toward them.  He spotted them and Sara knew there was no avoiding him now.  She and Grissom just stood there as Ecklie took three more long strides down the hall and stopped right in front of them.

"Well, hello, Gil," he said in an overly friendly tone.  "I hear you were having a little trouble with your evidence this morning."

Sara wished that they had run into Ecklie a few minutes sooner.  If the timing had been right, Grissom might have vomited all over the dayshift supervisor's shoes.  Now _that_ would have made her day.  She smiled to herself at the thought, but tried to hide her imagined glee as she told Ecklie, "There was no problem.  I don't know what you're talking about."

Ecklie directed a pointed glance toward the silent Grissom.  "What's the matter, Gil, cat got your tongue?"

Grissom glared weakly at the other man; he was in no mood to discuss things right now.  Everything that was going on around him felt far away and removed, like he wasn't really standing there.  He was way beyond exhaustion and he was uncertain how much longer he could even stay on his feet.   Grissom didn't have the patience or stamina to get into it with Ecklie, although he _wanted_ to.  He was furious with the dayshift supervisor and wanted to let him know exactly why, but at that moment he felt like he could barely utter a word.  So he remained quiet, content to express his opinion of Ecklie through his eyes and body language.

Sara sensed Grissom's feelings and she knew that now was _not_ the time for him to confront Ecklie.

Grissom still didn't say anything, but Ecklie continued to talk.  "I'm surprised to see you here since I heard you were sick," he said.  He pretended to study Grissom's appearance with concern.  "You _do_ look awful, Gil," he commented, not succeeding in completely keeping the perverse joy out of his voice.  "It looks like you were heading home, which is probably a good idea.  Don't worry.  I'll hold down the fort while you're gone."  He flashed the others an arrogant grin.  "In fact, some of my team just broke open a huge case.  That's why I'm here.  I need to find Brass."

"Well, he's in interrogation right now," Sara informed him, in a mock-friendly tone.  She began leading Grissom down the hall as she added, "You were right, we're just on our way out.  So if you don't mind, we'll talk later."  She managed to sound like she really meant it, and Ecklie finally walked away from them, making his way further down the corridor.

"Come on," Sara coaxed, getting Grissom moving again.  She realized that the situation with Sampson wasn't quite over yet, but she was certain Grissom had no more interest in heading back to watch the rest of the interrogation.  He looked completely spent, and she knew he must feel totally miserable.  The fact that he was also being so quiet just made those things even more clear.

They had gone a few more steps when they saw Cohen and Sears coming from the other direction.  "Hey," Sears said.

"Hey," Sara replied.  "Is it over already?"

"Pretty much," Sears explained.  She spoke quietly, but quickly, knowing that Sara needed to get Grissom home.  "Sampson didn't exactly _confess_ to everything, but he implied that he had been involved in the deaths of the women and Joey Winston.  The evidence is strong enough that we didn't need him to just come out and say that he had done it."  She took a breath before adding, "It was clear to everyone that this guy was _very_ disturbed, although he projected control and intelligence.  He fit the signature killer profile to a 'tee.'"

Cohen shuddered inwardly at the thought of Sampson calmly killing all those people.  "_Extremely_ creepy guy," she commented, nodding

"Yeah," Sara agreed.

The women's eyes moved to Grissom, and they realized they should wrap up the conversation quickly.

"Well, I'm gonna get him out of here," Sara said.  "If you guys see Catherine would you tell her I took Grissom home?"

"Sure," Cohen answered.  Suddenly remembering the Styrofoam cup she had in her hand, she offered it to the obviously ailing Grissom.  "We grabbed some tea for you," she told him.  "We thought you might need it on the way home.  You know, to help settle your stomach?"

"Thanks," he whispered hoarsely.

"No problem," Cohen said, smiling.  "Feel better."

"Yeah, get some rest," Sears added.

The two dayshift investigators headed away, but stopped and turned when they heard Sara's voice.  "Hey, guys," she called to them.  "Be on the alert, your boss is around here somewhere.  Grissom and I just ran into him."

"Thanks for the warning, Sara," Sears called back.  "We'll keep an eye out for him and use our best avoidance patterns."

She and Cohen continued on their way back to the interrogation area, as Sara and Grissom resumed walking in the direction of the exit.  They reached it and she shuttled him out the door and toward her SUV, glad that he was finally going home and staying there.

*                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *                      *


	20. Comfort, Part One

**A/N: Well, I'm finally back! I really didn't mean to be gone so long this time, but this last section ended up taking _much_ longer than I thought it would. I know I had said there would be only one more chapter, but it ended up running on so long that I decided to cut it into two parts. The good news is that Part Two is done and in the hands of my wonderful beta, Grissom (thanks again for everything, Gris!), so it should be able to be posted very soon. (grin) I hope everyone enjoys the first part of the conclusion. A thank you goes out to MW for the Gatorade idea! And, of course, more thanks go out to everyone who has reviewed this story so far! All those reviews are what kept me going during this _long_ dry spell between chapters. Now, onto the second-to-last (I promise) chapter of 'No Rest for the Weary.' Enjoy!**

**A/N, Part Two: When trying to upload this, I was unable to put in any kind of indication for a time lapse, so when it appears that some time has passed, just imagine a row of astrerisks there. (wink)**

**Chapter 20: Comfort, Part One**

Sara pulled the Denali into a parking spot and turned off the engine, startling Grissom out of his light doze. He lifted his head from the window and looked blearily over at her.

"Sorry," she said, hating that she had to disturb him. "But you need some things at your place. I thought I'd just run in and pick them up."

He glanced out the window, finally registering that they were in front of a supermarket. He nodded at Sara, and then leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. She saw him shudder and pull his jacket more tightly around him, and that just reminded her that she needed to hurry. "Be right back," she promised.

When she returned ten minutes later, she found him shaking even more intensely as he sipped the cup of tea he held in his unsteady hands. She put the packages in back and then slipped behind the wheel. He placed the tea into one of the cupholders and tried to get comfortable in the seat. She turned toward him. "All right, let's get you home," she said, and then backed out of the space.

They got to Grissom's townhouse and made it up the stairs and inside. Sara dropped the two bags of groceries in the kitchen and helped Grissom into the bedroom. He sat down on the bed, and she went to the dresser and found him some clean sweats, which she placed next to him. "Grissom," she began. When she got no response, she put a hand on his shoulder and leaned down closer to him. "Grissom?" This time he looked up at her. "Why don't you get undressed while I unpack the groceries? It'll just take me a minute."

He stared at her blankly, and then nodded slowly. She watched him shrug out of his jacket and sweater, and then she headed for the kitchen. She found it disconcerting that he was being so quiet, even though she knew it was only because he was so incredibly tired and weak. She certainly didn't blame him for that at all; in fact, she was actually amazed he had made it this far without collapsing.

She gave him a few extra minutes to change before she went back into his bedroom. He was wearing the sweatshirt and sweatpants, but had gone back to sitting in the same position. In spite of how bad he was feeling, he had still made sure to fold his clothing and place it into a neat pile. Sara put down what she was holding, and lowered herself in front of Grissom again, placing a hand on his leg. "Is your migraine still really bad?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," he breathed.

She took his pills from the pocket of his windbreaker. She handed him one and opened the bottle of water she had brought in. "Here."

He swallowed the medicine with a gulp of water.

"Now drink this," she instructed gently, giving him the large glass of clear liquid she had also brought from the kitchen. "It's not water," she explained. "It's Gatorade, they call it Gatorade Ice. I thought you could use something to keep your electrolytes up. This kind is supposed to be orange-flavored, but I have no idea what it tastes like."

He sipped it tentatively. "Kind of salty," he commented, "but not bad." He lifted the glass to his lips again and started gulping it down in large swallows.

"Whoa, slow down," she said, touching his arm. "You don't want it coming right back up." He was obviously thirsty, and probably feeling the effects of dehydration, so of course he wanted to drink quickly. She felt bad slowing him down, but she definitely didn't want him to get sick again.

Grissom took her advice and drank the rest of the Gatorade in smaller mouthfuls.

"I'll get you some more," she offered. "Why don't you get under the covers?"

She came back with another glass of Gatorade, which he drank down slowly. Then he slid all the way under the covers and exhaled deeply. He moved around briefly, then closed his eyes.

"Time for you to get some sleep," she whispered. "Finally." She ran her fingers soothingly through his hair. "I'll be right here next to you," she promised.

He gave a tiny nod, and Sara watched his body relax as he headed quickly for deep, much-needed sleep.

She left his side just long enough to grab a chair and a couple of books and magazines from the other room. Positioning the chair near his bed, she settled in. The living room couch had been fine before, but now that he seemed even sicker, she really wanted to be closer to him.

Picking up one of the forensic journals, she started thumbing through it. She yawned almost immediately, and shook her head, trying to wake herself up a little. She was on the edge of exhaustion herself, and didn't think she could stay alert much longer, but she was _not_ going to leave until she knew Grissom was feeling better.

Sara had made it halfway through one of the journals before she was certain that Grissom was soundly asleep. She stopped reading to check on him. His breathing was rhythmic, but heavy, the congestion in his nose and chest fairly noticeable. As she got up to step over to him, he suddenly began visibly shivering. She pulled the blanket all the way up to his chin, and tucked it in securely. Then she moved her palm over his burning forehead and down to his cheek, which confirmed that his fever was still _very_ high. Sara frowned as she realized that she should have given him more medication before he had fallen asleep. She didn't want to disturb him, but she gave him a small shake just to check his level of consciousness. "Grissom?" she called quietly. If she had gotten any kind of response at all, she would have woken him all the way and given him some medicine; but he remained solidly asleep. She decided to just wait and see how he did, so she sat back down in the chair, glancing at him every few minutes as the time ticked by.

Sara vaguely felt herself falling forward. She snapped awake and put out her foot at the same time, barely preventing herself from tumbling out of the chair. She glanced around to get her bearings, and then rubbed her hands over her face. Once she realized that she was still in Grissom's bedroom and had fallen asleep in the chair, she checked her watch; she was surprised to find that more than two hours had passed.

After she felt fully awake again, she got up and stood by Grissom's bed. He had turned over onto his stomach now, his head tilted away from her, and the blankets tossed off his shoulders and twisted haphazardly around his waist. Concerned about his temperature, she lightly touched her fingers to the exposed skin on the back of his neck. He flinched, and a sound like a shaky moan escaped his lips; she knew her fingers must feel ice-cold against his torrid skin. "Gris?" she said. His neck was damp with sweat, and _very_ hot beneath her touch.

She finally removed her fingers, shifted her hand, and began gently stroking the back of his head. "Gris, can you hear me?" She ran her fingers through the tangled mess of curls a few more times, but he didn't move or make any other sounds. His breathing remained clogged, but deep, and she knew he desperately needed the sleep, so she decided not to wake him yet.

As she moved her hand again, this time to his back, she sat down on the edge of his mattress. She ran her hand around his back in what she hoped was a soothing motion. She couldn't believe how hot he felt, even through the two layers of clothing he was wearing. He was _so_ sick, and she was beginning to become seriously worried; she was afraid his temperature might be even higher than when it had registered one hundred three on the thermometer.

She continued to trace measured strokes on his back, up and down, over and over. "It'll be all right," she assured him softly. "You'll be fine. We just need this fever to break." She blew out a breath, then whispered, "You _are_ starting to scare me, though. I wish I could do something to help." She sat there with him a little longer, then she went back to her chair.

Several hours later, Sara looked up from her reading again. She was amazed that she had managed to stay awake. Everything was now catching up with her, and she was starting to feel pretty bad herself. She was completely exhausted, her body craved a long, hot shower, and she was getting hungry. She glanced at Grissom, saw that he hadn't moved, and then walked into his kitchen to hunt down something to eat.

The leftover soup from the day before was sitting in the refrigerator, and she decided to reheat it. A small portion of the macaroni and cheese was also there, but she chose to save that for Grissom; he would most likely be hungry when he finally woke up. The soup was not quite enough for her, so she searched the cupboards and found the peanut butter, which she spread on a slice of bread.

She ate at the table while keeping an ear tuned for Grissom in the other room. When she was done, she cleaned up, and then returned to the bedroom. It still appeared that Grissom hadn't moved from his previous position; he remained there on his stomach, deeply asleep, managing to breathe through his blocked airways the best he could. Sara knew without even touching him that he was still burning up with fever, and she was becoming more and more worried.

She was about to sit back down in the chair, when Grissom's breathing suddenly changed, becoming shallow and uneven. He turned over as his body began to convulse with shivers. Sara immediately went to him and pulled the covers up over him. She also elected to take the opportunity to wake him up so she could give him some overdue medication. Since he had just rolled over, he probably wasn't completely asleep at this moment, so it should be easier to rouse him.

"Grissom?" she said, gripping his shoulder and shaking him. When she got no noticeable response, she shook him harder. "Grissom?" She heard him groan, but he didn't open his eyes. "Come on, Grissom, wake up." She felt bad that she was bothering him, but he really needed some medicine. She grasped his other shoulder. "Come on, Gris, wake up," she repeated, much more loudly. She moved a hand to the side of his head and ran it through his hair. "Please?"

His eyes finally fluttered open. He glanced around with glazed eyes until the situation registered. Then his head snapped up and he lifted himself onto his elbows. "Sara?" he croaked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she explained, trying to calm him. "Your temperature is through the roof, and I need to give you something to bring it down. I'm sorry I had to wake you. I know you're tired, but your temperature is way up there, Gris, and it's worrying me."

He nodded, and then dropped his head back onto the pillows, swiping roughly at his burning eyes. He felt awful—his head was clogged and throbbed with dull pain, his throat was dry and scratchy, and, although he was certain that you could fry an egg on his forehead, he was still freezing. He would have known without Sara telling him that he was running a very high fever.

He began coughing continually, so he pushed himself back onto his elbows, and then all the way to a sitting position. He reached for some tissues, sneezed, and then blew his nose; he repeated the sequence several more times.

Sara looked at him and shook her head—he still sounded so terrible. "I'll be right back," she told him, as she went to get something from the kitchen.

When she returned, he was still sitting up, but his head was back against the headboard and his eyes were closed. She put down what she was holding, and touched his shoulder. "Gris?" she said.

After a very brief pause, he opened his eyes and looked at her. He was obviously groggy and still not completely awake. "You can go back to sleep in a second, I promise," she said soothingly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. She reached down and opened a couple of the bottles on the nightstand. Shaking four pills into her palm, she held them out towards him. "Will you take these for me first?" she asked

He nodded, and scooped them up. She handed him the glass she had just brought in. "I poured you some more Gatorade, or would you rather have water or juice?"

"This is fine," he replied, tossing the pills into his mouth and washing them down with the clear sports drink. As soon as he had drained the glass, he slid down beneath the covers again. "Thanks, Sara," he said, his voice rough, but faint. Once he was lying on his back, he fell back to sleep almost immediately.

He was still shivering slightly, so Sara made sure he was completely covered by the comforter. Even though she knew he was down for the count once again, she stayed there, gently running her hand up and down his blanket-clad arm.

She exhaled deeply, and then yawned; she was _so_ tired. Looking at the empty side of Grissom's large bed, she was sorely tempted to lie down next to him. Of course, she didn't have a reason or excuse to 'sleep with him' again. He didn't seem to be having nightmares anymore. She knew that he was much too out of it to even notice if she were sleeping in the bed with him. _But what if he woke up? How would I explain why I'm lying there next to him?_ she thought.

She recalled how comfortable his bed had been, and she had been so relaxed being physically close to him. She knew if she got into the bed with Grissom, she would sleep totally peacefully and restfully, and that was very appealing to her. But, finally and reluctantly, she decided against it—it just wouldn't seem right. She turned to go back to her small, uncomfortable chair, but then she thought better of it, and looked at Grissom one more time.

He had suddenly begun shivering again, much more strongly than before. Her brow furrowed as she stepped back to his side. She put a hand on the side of his face. His skin still felt as if it were on fire, but obviously he was almost impossibly cold. "Oh, Gris," she said worriedly.

She looked around the room, trying to figure out how to help him. He was already pretty well bundled up in the covers. Then she remembered the green fleece blanket, but for a second she couldn't remember what she had done with it. Then it clicked; she went out to the living room couch where she had left the blanket, brought it into the bedroom, and then spread it out over the sleeping Grissom. The extra layer of warmth seemed to help, and he stopped shivering after a few minutes.

"There you go," she whispered, giving the blanket one last tug into place. Then she went back to her chair.

She knew she would fall asleep, so she scrunched around, trying to find a position that was halfway comfortable. She stared at him for a while as her eyelids grew heavy, making sure he was all right. Then she finally drifted off to sleep.

The first thing Sara became aware of when she woke up was an incapacitating pain in her neck. She lifted her head and grimaced. Her hand automatically went to the back of her neck and tried to knead away the stiffness and pain. Once she could at least move her neck again, she sat up. When she became completely alert and regained her senses, she looked over at Grissom.

He had tossed some of the covers off himself, and he was dripping with sweat—even his hair was soaked. The top of his sweatshirt was wet to halfway down his chest.

Sara got up and quickly pulled more of the blankets off him. Duplicating what she had done the previous day, she went into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. She wiped the saturated towel thoroughly over his face and neck. She returned to the bathroom to rinse the cloth, and then repeated wiping down his face several more times.

At that moment, she realized that she was shaking and her heart was racing. Waking up slowly, all pained and twisted up like a pretzel, and then seeing Grissom's condition and jumping into action had physically affected her more than she would have believed. She looked down at his pale, sweat-drenched form. "God, Gris, you are freaking me out," she said quietly. She had thought she was at least halfway joking, but she was surprised to discover that she was deadly serious.

_Do you know what you're doing to me here?_ she wondered silently. _Of course you don't,_ she thought, responding to her own question. It wasn't like he planned or wanted to get sick—especially not _this_ sick. She was glad his fever was finally breaking, and that he was still deeply asleep, but that didn't stop her from being concerned about him. He just looked so helpless and vulnerable laying there that she couldn't help but feel protective of him. She stepped next to him, reached down, and ran her fingers through his wet curls. "You'd better get well soon, pal," she said out loud, although she knew he couldn't hear her. "Because you're making me crazy. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

Sara closed her eyes for a few seconds, realizing how completely exhausted she was and feeling the stiff soreness in her muscles, but she still didn't feel right leaving him to go home. Opening her eyes again, she quickly made a decision. "The hell with it," she told the room at large, as she walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down on it, lifting her legs up in front of her. She reached over and grabbed the green blanket Grissom didn't need right now, then laid back and covered herself with it. Sinking into the soft mattress, she exhaled in contentment. Then she shut her eyes and slipped eagerly into sleep.

As Sara gradually awoke, she glanced around and stretched. She knew she hadn't slept _that_ long, but she felt much more tranquil and refreshed than she had been before her little 'nap'.

She lay there a few more minutes, smiling as she listened to Grissom breathing next to her. His airways sounded much freer, and she mentally patted herself on the back for giving him two decongestants along with the ibuprofen he had taken earlier.

She got up carefully, trying very hard not to move the bed too much. The last thing she wanted to do was wake up Grissom. As she stood slowly, a recent, but vague, memory started to come back to her.

During the time they were 'sleeping together,' she thought she remembered sensing Grissom move around on the bed, which woke her up. Then he had woken up, too. She felt him pulling at the covers, and she realized he was probably cold again. She knew that they had both been woozy and only half-awake, but she thought Grissom had groaned softly and called her name. Sara recalled reassuring him and, in a half-stupor, slurring out something like, "It's okay, I'm right here, honey. Go back to sleep."

Embarrassment heated her cheeks as the realization hit. _Oh, God, did I really say that?_ she thought, horrified. _Did I really call him 'honey'? Out loud?_

The only thing preventing her from running out of the room and hiding was that the memory was so hazy that she wasn't even sure if it had really happened or if she had just dreamed it. She realized that it probably didn't matter, since Grissom was so out of it that even if she _had_ said it, he most likely hadn't heard or wouldn't even remember.

Still mulling over her possible slip of the tongue, she stepped around to Grissom's side of the bed. He was sleeping quite deeply, and there was no way of knowing just by looking at him if what she feared had happened had actually occurred. He gave no indication of whether he had awoken or changed positions or adjusted the blankets during the last couple of hours while Sara had shared the bed with him.

But Sara _could_ tell that he was feeling better, just by looking at him. He seemed to be neither too warm nor too cold, he was breathing deeply and freely, and he was clearly resting much more comfortably than before. He looked so sweet lying there sleeping, that Sara smiled in spite of herself. She decided that she didn't care if a term of endearment for Grissom had slipped out. She really doubted he would remember, and, even if he did, she would just feign innocence and tell him that he must have been dreaming.

As she stood close to him, that almost-impossible-to-resist urge to touch him came back to her. She needed to check his temperature, which was a convenient, and even legitimate, excuse, so she tucked her hair behind her ears so she could lean down over him. Placing a hand on the top of his head, she lowered her face toward his. With extreme care, she gently touched her lips to his forehead, and then turned her face so that her cheek was against his skin. He was still feverish, but he felt cooler to her than he had earlier. His temperature had definitely gone down a couple of degrees, and Sara was relieved. _Finally,_ she thought, _a change for the better._ She stood up, brushing her fingers through his somewhat disheveled curls.

"I'm glad you're finally feeling better," she whispered to him. "I'm going to leave for a little while, but I promise I'll be back." She stepped away from him and moved into the other room, opening her cell phone as she went. She pressed one button on her speed dial and waited.

"Hi, Catherine," she said when the other woman answered. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I was up," Catherine replied. "What's going on? How's Grissom?"

"He's finally getting better," Sara told her. "His fever went down quite a bit."

"That's great. Glad to hear it. He looked pretty bad back in the break room. He was hurting."

"I know," Sara agreed. "But now he's showing signs of improvement." She paused, then added, "Listen, Catherine, can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, what do you need?"

"Would you be able to come over here and stay with Grissom for a while?"

"Of course I can come over, but why do you need me to? What's the matter? Aren't you staying?"

"Nothing's wrong," Sara explained. "I _want_ to stay with him, but I really need to go home and grab a shower and some fresh clothes. I won't be gone that long."

Catherine hadn't realized how hard this whole thing must be on Sara. All this time she had been taking care of Grissom and neglecting her own needs. Catherine figured she must be totally exhausted by now. "Hey, don't worry about it," Catherine assured her. "Take your time. Do what you have to. Sleep for a few hours if you need it. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Okay. Thanks, Catherine."

"No problem," she replied."

Sara hung up and went to stand in the doorway of Grissom's bedroom. Leaning against the doorjamb, she watched him sleep. He looked unexpectedly angelic as he lay there, deep in slumber, and Sara just smiled and stared as she waited for Catherine to arrive.

**TO BE CONTINUED…JUST ONE MORE TIME…:-)**


	21. Comfort, Part Two

**A/N:  Well, here it is!  Finally, the last chapter of 'No Rest for the Weary'!  I hope everyone enjoys the conclusion.  A thank you goes out to Sara Grissom for the idea for the ending (grin).  I hope she thinks I did it justice.  Also, thank you so much everyone for sticking with this story throughout the entire journey.  Every single review left along the way is _so, so_ appreciated.  And, of course, extra special thanks must go out to my beta, Grissom.  She gave me ideas when I was stuck, and her comments always made my day!  Without her, this story might never have happened.  And now, onto the final chapter:  I hope it's worth the time and effort you all spent getting here.  Enjoy!**

**Chapter 21:  Comfort, Part Two**

Grissom gradually came awake on the bed.  As he pushed his way slowly through the gauzy layers of consciousness, he opened his eyes and looked around.

He saw a figure sitting in the shadows, past the edges of light cast by his bedside lamp.  "Sara?" he rasped hoarsely, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"No, it's Catherine," said the figure as she leaned into the circle of pale light.  "Good morning."  She smiled, then glanced down at her watch.  "Or should I say good afternoon?"

Grissom began to cough, and he sat up to reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand.  He took several large gulps and swallowed, but the hacking returned a few seconds later.

Catherine got out of the chair and came over to him, looking concerned.  "That doesn't sound too good," she pointed out.  "How's everything else?"

He shrugged.  He hadn't really had a chance to assess how he was feeling at this moment.  Overall, he thought he felt a bit better.  He still had the burning eyes and dull headache that accompanied a fever, but he didn't think it was as severe as before.  At the very least, he was grateful that his migraine seemed to have faded away.

Since he wasn't supplying any information, Catherine wanted to check his condition for herself.  She reached a hand toward his face.  "May I?" she asked.

He sighed dramatically.  "Why not?" he surrendered.  "I've already been poked and prodded and stared at like something under a microscope."

"Ah, the scientist becomes the experiment," she replied with a grin.  Although Grissom seemed quite annoyed with all the unwanted female attention he was receiving because of his illness, Catherine thought that, deep down, he probably was enjoying it—at least a little.  _Then again, maybe not,_ she added silently as she took note of his expression.  _You never know with Grissom…_

In any case, Catherine continued moving her hand forward and felt his forehead.  "Not bad," she commented.  "Sara was right—your fever has come down.  But I still need to give you something for that cough."

He recalled the horrid-tasting medicine and his empty stomach contracted painfully.

Catherine noticed his grimace.  "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing.  That stuff just tastes horrible."

"Oh, sorry."  She glanced at the writing on the bottle.  As he coughed again, she added with sympathy, "You still have to take it, though."

"I know," he replied.  He picked up the spoon and she filled it once, and then twice.  After the second swallow of gooey medicine, he grabbed the bottle of water again and drank a good deal of it down.

His eyes drifted to the chair Catherine had been occupying earlier.  "Why were you sitting right there?" he asked, voicing what he had been wondering since he woke up.

"It was Sara's idea," she explained.  "She thought that if you woke up and needed something, it would be better if I was in here with you."

He simply nodded without further comment.  Then he added, "Where is Sara anyway?"

Catherine smiled slightly, trying to hide her reaction from Grissom.  He would _never _admit it, but Catherine knew he would much rather have Sara there taking care of him than her.  "She'll be back soon," Catherine told him.  "She just went home to shower and change, and maybe catch some sleep."

Grissom nodded again.  He also hadn't given much thought to how Sara must be feeling.  "Yeah, she must be pretty exhausted.  I guess she hasn't slept much since she's been over here."

"Probably not," Catherine agreed.  "But we were all more concerned about _you_ getting some sleep than the rest of us."

After a moment, she changed the subject.  "Okay, can I get you anything?  Do you want something to eat?"

He seemed to put an awful lot of thought into what Catherine considered a simple question.  He was actually trying to decide if his stomach was ready for food.  It seemed more settled than before, and it was definitely empty, but he didn't think hunger was the sensation he was experiencing.  His stomach felt pinched, like it had shrunken by about fifty percent—which, he realized, it probably had.  He had eaten very little since he had first felt ill—and most of that he had thrown up.  He finally answered Catherine, claiming, "I don't know."

"You must be hungry," Catherine pushed gently.  "I know it's been hours since you've eaten.  I'm sure we can find something that won't upset your stomach."

"That's not really the problem, Cath," he tried to explain.  "In fact, for the first time in I don't know how long, the constant sensation of queasiness seems to be gone."

"Well, that's good, Grissom," she said, looking a little confused at his response.  "It means you've probably licked whatever nasty stomach bug you had picked up.  It sounds like the road to recovery to me."

"I'm still not sure food is such a good idea," he said, slowly shaking his head.

"All right.  What about something warm, then?  That should be soothing to your stomach.  How about some tea or…?"  She was about to say "soup," until she remembered how Grissom's last encounter with a bowl of soup had ended.  "You know what?" she finished.  "Let's just go with the tea."

"Thanks, Cath," he replied.  He tossed off the covers, pivoted his body, and dropped his feet to the floor.

Her brow knitted.  "Where are you going?" she wondered.

He gestured with his chin toward the bathroom.

"Can you make it all the way there by yourself?" she asked, flashing him a sly grin.

"I certainly hope so," he replied, raising an eyebrow as his eyes met hers.

"Just shout if you need me," Catherine tossed off before she headed for the kitchen.

Grissom shook his head again, this time in weary exasperation, as he slowly stood up.

A few minutes later, when he was settled back in bed, Catherine returned, carrying a TV tray she had found in one of the cabinets.  Balanced on top was a steaming mug of tea, a tall glass of apple juice, a container of honey, a small cup of strawberry jam, a spoon, a knife, napkins, and a plate of dry toast.  She placed the tray carefully over Grissom's legs.

"I lied," she began.  "I made you some toast, too.  I thought, you know, just in case you changed your mind and wanted something."

"Thanks, Cath," he said, looking down at the spread in front of him.  "You didn't have to get so fancy, but I appreciate it."

"This is 'fancy' to you?" she asked, incredulous.

He shrugged sheepishly.

"You have _got_ to get out more, Grissom."

"Probably," he replied with a grin.  "But, really, Catherine, thanks.  This is nice."

He squeezed some honey into the mug, stirred it around with the spoon, and then sipped the tea.  The liquid made a warm, smooth path down to his stomach.  He blew on the surface and swallowed some more.  The tea not only felt soothing as it filled and expanded his stomach, but it also seemed to reawaken his appetite.  He suddenly found himself ravenous, and he picked up a slice of toast and spread a small dollop of jam onto it.  He took a bite and swallowed, immediately feeling better, but also hungrier.

Watching as he finished off the first piece of toast, Catherine asked, "Did you get to hear what happened with Sampson?  Cohen and Sears told me that you had to…uh…leave before the interrogation was over."

"I never got the details," he replied, beginning to slather a second piece of toast with strawberry preserves.

"He talked about your old case," she said, sitting back in the chair.  Her voice got very solemn as she repeated Sampson's words.  "He said there was supposed to be a third victim back then, but you got too close with your investigation.  He told us he even had her picked out."

Grissom paused in chewing his second bite of toast.  He managed to swallow, but it was difficult as his throat became suddenly tight and dry.  He put the half-eaten bread back down on the plate and moved the tray off to the side, his appetite rapidly vanishing once again.

Catherine's words echoed in his ears.  _There was supposed to be a third…_  Something about that gnawed at him.  _I knew that,_ he thought.  _Fifteen years ago, I _knew_ there was supposed to be another victim.  How did I…?_  After several minutes of grasping at the past, the hazy memory cleared, like the first shock of brilliant blue in the sky after a heavy downpour.  _It was the nightmares,_ he silently told himself, as a shudder darted down his spine.  _I saw it in the nightmares…_

He had remembered his nightmares from fifteen years ago when he had been in the layout room studying the crime scene pictures.  He had clearly recalled the severity and staying power of the disconcerting dreams he had experienced during the original case; but what he had _not_ been able to remember—until now—was that his haunting visions had shown him a third person being killed at the hands of the faceless shadowy murderer.  Of course, now, the shadows had finally been banished by the uncompromising strength of the evidence they had found, and they knew Sampson had been that murky figure Grissom had seen in his dreams.

But knowing that didn't help lessen the dread Grissom was feeling at this moment.  Another chill coursed through him, and he knew it had nothing at all to do with his fever.

Catherine had been continuing on about what Sampson had said in his interrogation, but she stopped abruptly when she noticed that Grissom's attention had shifted downward.  He seemed to be intently studying his hands as they lay clasped of top of the blanket.

"Grissom?" she said, standing up and coming over to him.  "Grissom?" she tried again when she got no response.  "Hey?"  She gently touched his shoulder, and he jumped as if he had been struck.  "Whoa, easy, it's just me," she reassured him.

He looked at her wide-eyed, and she could hear his breath coming fast and shallowly.               

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," she apologized.  She studied him, noticing that he seemed a little paler than before and that his eyes were glazed.  "Are you all right?"

He blinked a few times as he absorbed her question.  "Yeah," he finally answered, his voice shaky, "I'm fine, Catherine…just tired, I guess."

She nodded in understanding.  "Do you want to go back to sleep?  I'll just grab this stuff and shut the light."  She went to reach for the tray next to him, but he stopped her. "It's okay, Catherine.  I _am_ tired, but I still want to hear about Sampson."

"Are you sure?  We can talk later."

"Yes, I'm sure."  He had not lied to her before when he told her he was tired, even though he had used it as an excuse.  He really _was_ extremely weary and fatigued, despite the long stretches of sleep he'd just had.  But the nightmare memories of Sampson's intended third victim were fresh in his mind.  He wanted to sleep, but he knew he needed to push those images from his brain or he wouldn't be able to rest peacefully.  He thought listening to Catherine would help distract him, and also reassure him that Sampson was going to be put away and would suffer the consequences for all the atrocities he had committed—including those from fifteen years ago.

He turned to Catherine, looking as alert as he could as she settled back in the chair to talk to him.

"Sampson said that he was trying to complete his 'masterpiece.'  He was a frustrated artist, a painter, and he claimed he needed to kill those people for his art.  He basically just told us, 'It was time,' as if that explained everything."

"Time for what?" Grissom asked, becoming absorbed in her words.  "Did he mean the original murders or the current ones?"

"Both, I think.  He went on to say that it was supposed to be three victims each time.  He had the third woman picked out fifteen years ago, but he felt you were getting too close and he couldn't complete his 'painting.'  I don't think he had intended for the first two girls to be found as soon as they were."

Grissom nodded.  "Yeah, I remember that a nosy neighbor trying to peek in the window was the one who saw one of the bodies and called the police."

"His little art session was cut short, I guess," Catherine commented.

Grissom just nodded again.  After a moment, he said, "So Sampson didn't get his three the first time, but he did the second…"

"Well, yes and no," she corrected.  "Sampson told us that Joey Winston was not one of his planned victims.  It turned out that his death was a result of necessity.  Apparently, Sampson didn't realize that Jessica Rosen had groceries delivered every Thursday.  Joey was her usual delivery boy and she always told him to just come in if there was no answer.  If the door was locked, he knew to look in the mailbox for a key."

"Ah, so Joey shows up unannounced," Grissom began, as understanding dawned, "and Sampson isn't ready for that.  So he kills Joey quickly, but decides not to waste all that precious blood and saves some to splash on the walls.  Then he dumps him in the desert and goes back to torture and finish off Jessica—but he kills her slowly so he can get as much blood out of her as possible.  _That's_ why Joey was killed five days before Jessica—Sampson just needed to get rid of him, he wasn't part of the plan."

"Right," she agreed.  "But since Sampson _did_ end up killing Joey, that gave him the trinity of victims he said he needed.  They may not have ended up being the three victims he had originally chosen, but he still had his three."

"And then we caught him," Grissom added solemnly.

Catherine nodded in satisfaction.  "We got him for _both_ sets of murders.  The evidence is so strong that Daniel Sampson won't be seeing the light of day for a very, _very_ long time."

They held each other's gazes in silence for a little while longer, just letting everything sink in.  Then Grissom looked away, and Catherine saw him yawn, even though he politely hid it behind his hand.

"All right, I can take a hint," she commented with a grin, coming over next to him again.

He turned toward her, looking confused.  "What?"  Then he figured it out.  "Oh…sorry about that, Cath.  I couldn't help it, I'm just…"

"I know you're beat, Grissom," she finished gently, still grinning.  "Don't worry.  I'm not taking it personally.  I'm sure all this sitting up and talking hasn't helped either.  Why don't you just get some sleep?"

"I think I will.  Thanks, Cath."

"Can you hand me that tray?" she asked.

"Sure."  He picked it up and balanced it on his lap.  "Just one second," he said.  He grabbed the glass of juice off it, which was still half-full.  Catherine watched as he drained the cup, placed it back on the tray, and handed the whole thing to her.  "Sorry," he explained.  "I'm still thirsty."

"Do you want me to get you something else to drink?" she asked as she stood there, holding the tray.

"That would be great, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind, Grissom.  What can I get you?   More juice, Gatorade?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Okay, I'll be right back."

She cleaned off the tray in the kitchen, then came back to the bedroom with a fresh glass of apple juice.  He took the glass, gulped down about half of it, placed it carefully on the nightstand, and then slid down under the covers.

"Thanks for everything you've been doing, Catherine," he told her, his voice getting quiet as he settled into the soft blankets.  "I really appreciate it."

She couldn't help but smile at him again.  "It's all right, Gil, you don't have to keep thanking me.  I _want_ you to get better, remember?  I'm tired of doing your job."

"I remember."  He closed his eyes and began to slip into sleep.  Although he was exhausted, the nightmare images from Sampson's killings were still lingering at the corner of his mind.  He tried to push them further into his subconscious, hoping they would blur and fade away completely before he fell all the way into deep sleep.  "Thanks, Cath," he mumbled one more time as he drifted over the edge.

She shook her head.  _He's impossible_, she thought endearingly.  _But it's nice to be appreciated.  Although I can't remember him being this gracious when he's well.  Still, it's nice to hear him say thank you…_  She shut the light and decided to leave the room for a while so she wouldn't disturb him and he wouldn't feel like she was hovering over him.

She went back into the kitchen and used the leftover water in the kettle to make herself a cup of tea.  Looking in the refrigerator, she found some grapes that looked fresh.  _Sara must have bought these,_ she thought.  She chose a bunch, rinsed them, and then sat at the table to eat while she thumbed through one of the magazines she had brought with her.

After a few minutes, Catherine went to Grissom's bedroom door and peeked inside.  A look of concern crossed her face as she watched him.  He seemed restless; he was tossing and turning, and he didn't seem to be sleeping peacefully at all.  It was nothing like the serene state he had been in when she had arrived earlier.  She wondered if he was feeling all right.  Maybe his fever had gone up again, and it was preventing him from sleeping soundly.

She was considering going over to him to see if she could do something to help, when he rolled over onto his back and then finally remained still.  He exhaled audibly and his features seemed to relax as he settled into calm sleep at last.

Once Catherine was satisfied he was getting some real rest, she walked back into the living room.

--------------------------------------------

Not long after Catherine had settled on Grissom's small sofa to read, she heard a click as the front door opened, and Sara appeared, toting two small bags

"Hey, Catherine," she said, going into the kitchen area.  She began to unload the bags—one appeared to be a few more groceries, and the other was filled with a backup supply of tissues and flu and fever medications.

"Hey, Sara," Catherine replied, standing and walking over to help her put away what she had brought.

"Is he all right?" Sara asked.

"Yeah," Catherine assured her.  "He's sleeping again now."

"Good, he needs it."

"You were right about his fever—it definitely went down.  And he said he didn't feel nauseous anymore, but I still couldn't get him to eat very much.  He had some toast, that was it."

"Don't worry—I'll feed him later."

Catherine smiled.  "Yeah, I'm sure you can be more persuasive then I was."

"Hopefully," Sara responded, looking at Catherine with a small grin.

When Catherine got a full glimpse of the younger woman's face, her tone became serious.  "So, how are you?  Did you get any sleep?"

"Some.  Why?" Sara asked in complete confusion.

"You just look kind of pale.  Are _you_ feeling all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered, but Catherine's words made her think.  She _was_ still a bit tired, but that was all.

"I'm glad to hear it," Catherine said, giving her a smile to lighten the mood.  "If you're sure you're okay, then I've got to get going."  She glanced quickly at her watch.  "The babysitter said she needed to leave by six, and then I need to get ready for shift tonight."

"Are you sure it's all right that I'm taking another night off?  Since Grissom's obviously not coming in, and Nick's still out of commission, I know you're already going to be shorthanded."

"There's no problem, Sara.  Don't even worry about it.  Nick'll be there, working around the lab.  He quickly got restless staying at home.  I know we shouldn't leave Grissom here alone—not quite yet—so we'll make due without you guys."  She grinned widely before adding, "We'll take Greg out in the field with us.  He'll love it."

Sara smiled back.  "Good."

Catherine gathered up her things and headed toward the door.  "Talk to you later."

"Bye," Sara offered.  "I hope it's an easy shift."

"Thanks, but is it ever?" Catherine commented.

"Not usually," Sara agreed as her colleague disappeared through the doorway.  After Sara had securely closed and latched the door, she moved with long strides to Grissom's room.

The interior of his bedroom was plunged into darkness; the sliver of light from the adjacent room provided the only break in the inky blackness.  Sara slowly pushed open the door, expanding the thin beam of brightness into a wider rectangle, illuminating his still form on the bed.

"Hey, Gris," she whispered, too quietly for him to hear.  She hoped that maybe somehow, his subconscious would pick up her greeting and he would know she was there.  As she walked over to him, a huge grin found its way onto her face, seemingly of its own accord.  She was not surprised to discover that she had missed him.  A lot.  A lot more than she should have.  Even though she hadn't been gone long—just a couple of hours—she had been thinking about him the whole time, wondering how he was feeling, worrying about his fever.

She reached down, her fingertips barely making contact with his skin, her touches to his forehead and face feathery-light, trying not to wake him.  He felt noticeably warmer than he had before, and she realized she had been gone long enough for the fever medication to begin wearing off.  She hoped it was only a minor change, and that his temperature wasn't heading too much higher again.

Her fingers migrated upwards, getting lost in the wavy sea of sandy brown and steely gray on the top of his head.  She really _had_ been touching him quite often recently, and she couldn't seem to stop.

She had always had certain…feelings for Grissom, and she was pretty sure everyone knew about them.  But lately, especially during these past few days, those feelings had grown.  She had been spending a _lot_ of time with him, under the guise of taking care of him, and she had been constantly touching him, under the guise of monitoring his temperature.  And she might be wrong, but she thought that Grissom hadn't seemed to mind.

In fact, she surmised that maybe he had been enjoying the closeness and the time spent together almost as much as she had.  Or it could just be wishful thinking on her part—Grissom _had_ been very sick and hadn't really been himself.  But still…she hoped that the feelings had been there and that he had been comfortable with them.

_Weird,_ she thought, staring blankly at the far wall as she absently played with his hair, _that it had taken Grissom being violently ill for us to finally take what seemed like one step forward in our relationship.  If it really is one step forward and not just a temporary move._  This powerful thought pulled her out of her reverie, and she carefully and reluctantly disentangled her fingers from his soft curls, afraid that she might wake him.

Stepping away from him and moving into the living room, Sara twisted her neck around and turned it from side to side.  She was surprised to find that her neck, along with her shoulders and back, still felt sore and stiff even though she had taken a long, soothing shower.  Walking toward the kitchen, Sara felt a sudden chill.  _Cold in here,_ she thought as she crossed her arms in front of her and rubbed them briefly.

She took out the box of chamomile tea she had bought and put the kettle on the stove to boil.  When the water was ready, she fixed her cup of tea and sipped at it. Standing there, leaning on the island, she suddenly felt irresistibly tired.  Yawning, she made her way to the couch and sank down onto it.  She picked up the green blanket, which Catherine must have put back on the couch, and wrapped it around her shoulders.  Gathering her legs up under her, Sara leaned into the cushions and, unable to fight it, let herself drift into sleep.

---------------------------------------------

When Sara woke up again and looked at her watch, she couldn't believe she had slept for so long.  She had slept before next to Grissom, and had even caught an hour-long nap while she had been at home.  It all added up to much longer than she normally slept, but she still felt fatigued.  _I shouldn't be this tired,_ she thought.  Pulling the blanket more tightly around her, she shivered again.  After a moment, she tossed off the blanket and stood up.  She went back into the kitchen to make some fresh tea, since hers had gotten cold on the counter during her unexpected nap.

Hoping that she hadn't missed Grissom stirring, she stood still and listened carefully.  The only sounds were the usual hums and creaks of an empty house.  _Good, he must still be sleeping,_ she said to herself.

When she had finished her cup of tea, she wandered back into Grissom's bedroom.  Her timing seemed perfect.  He began waking up as she stood there near his bed.  She watched as he opened his eyes and stretched a bit.  As he looked around, his gaze locked with hers, and he smiled.  "Hey, you're back."

"Didn't you think I was coming back?"

"Well, I wasn't sure," he teased.  "I figured you'd have to go into work eventually."

"I guess I do," she replied.  "But not tonight.  Catherine said it was okay."

"I think she's getting drunk with the power of my position."

"Maybe," Sara agreed, smiling.  "So, how are you feeling?"

"Not bad," he claimed, sitting up.  But then he reached for a tissue and sneezed.

"Bless you," she said.

"Thanks."

"So, are you hungry?  What can I get you?"

"Nothing right now."

"Come on, Gris, you have to eat," she urged.

He still wasn't sure it was a good idea, although his stomach was rumbling insistently.  But he gave in under her somewhat stern gaze.  "All right.  I guess I'll have something," he replied with a sigh.

"What would you like?" she asked, grinning at him again.

"Well, I know I didn't have much food in the house, so you'll have to let me know what you bought."

"Okay…" she paused to make a mental list.  "We've got the leftover mac and cheese.  Besides that, I can make you some eggs, or a sandwich, or maybe some rice or oatmeal?  What do you think?"

Obviously, there were too many choices for Grissom's still sleep-muddled brain.  Sara sensed his indecision and tried to help.  "I would probably suggest the macaroni and cheese or the oatmeal."

The mention of the macaroni and cheese reminded him too much of the incident in the police station bathroom.  "Let's go with the oatmeal," he decided.

"You got it."

She went into the kitchen and, after a few minutes, she called back to him, "Gris, do you want some tea?  I've already got the water boiling."

"No, thanks!" he shouted back.

"Do you want something else to drink?"

"Something cold would be great!"

Having grown tired of yelling back and forth, she popped her head into the doorway.  "What do you like on your oatmeal?"

He was slightly startled by the proximity of her voice, as he turned to look at her.  "What?" he questioned.

"What should I put on your oatmeal?  Butter, sugar, milk, anything?"

"I guess just a little milk would be fine, but I don't think I have any."

"You do now," she told him.  "I picked up some at the grocery store earlier."

"Thanks, Sara," he said.  Then he added, "Just keep track of how much I owe you for all the food and stuff."

"Please, Grissom," she assured him, "don't worry about it."  Then she disappeared again to finish preparing the food.

When she returned, she was carrying a bowl of oatmeal in one hand and a glass of Gatorade in the other.  She handed them over to Grissom, and then went back to the kitchen for one more thing.  She walked into his room holding a cup of tea.  She sat down in the chair and sipped it while she watched him eat.  He started out slowly, blowing on each spoonful of the very hot cereal.  Then as it cooled and his body demanded more, he ate quickly.  Sara noticed that he kept looking over at her—at first, they were casual glances, but then his expression grew more quizzical and concerned.

He swallowed the last bite of oatmeal and placed the bowl on the nightstand.  Then he picked up the glass of Gatorade and gulped some down.

"Do you want something else?" Sara asked from her chair.

"No, this was fine," he said.  His stomach was now pleasantly full, and he felt stronger and more energized.  But he still kept staring at Sara with an odd expression on his face.

"What is it?" she finally asked, not able to stand the scrutiny any longer.

His eyebrows knitted in worry as he inquired, "Are _you_ feeling all right?"

His voice and his face were mirrors of complete sincerity and seriousness, but she still had to search for clarification.  "What?"

"Are you feeling all right?" he repeated.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" she wondered.

His eyebrows rose at that.  "Everyone?  Who's everyone?"

"Well, you and Catherine.  She asked me the same thing before she left."

"If she noticed it, too, then I guess we have a good reason for asking.  I just think you look a little pale, and…not quite like yourself," he said gently, trying to explain his concern to her.  "So, how _are_ you feeling?  Did you get any sleep?"

"I actually got a _lot_ of sleep," she said.  "A lot for me, anyway.  I slept here quite a bit, and then I also got a quick nap when I went home."  She paused, then added, "But for some reason, I'm still tired."

"You're still tired?" he repeated.  "Is there anything else bothering you?"

"I guess I'm feeling a little achy and sore, too."

"Tired and achy," he said, mostly to himself.  Then he studied her face.  "Come here," he requested.

She squinted at him suspiciously, but she pushed herself out of the chair and walked over to stand in front of him, her arms crossed.

"Closer."

She took another step toward him.

He stared up at her from his position on the bed.  "No, come closer.  Sit down here," he offered, patting a spot on the mattress next to him.

She sat with little hesitation.  He reached toward her, his fingers lightly brushing the strands of hair around her forehead, moving them out of the way.  With his other hand, he gently touched her face, and she closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of his fingertips on her skin.  "Sara…" he breathed, his voice low.

"What?" she asked, her tone equally soft and expectant.

"You have a fever."

"What?" she repeated, this time in loud surprise; her eyes snapped open.

"A fever.  You have a fever."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," he asserted.  "I'm afraid you've caught the flu.  At least that's what I would guess from your other symptoms."

"I don't get sick, Grissom," she insisted stubbornly.

"That's how I used to feel, too," he said.  "But you _are_ sick."  As he looked at her, his face contorted in concern again.  "Sara, you're shivering."

She couldn't deny the obvious, so she remained silent.

He glanced around.  "You should get into bed."

"Excuse me?"  She looked at him sitting there with the covers gathered around his waist.

He followed her gaze and glanced down at himself, too.  "No, no, I mean you should get into the _other_ side of the bed, and I'll get up."

"But, Grissom…"

"Come on.  The sheets are clean and I only use this side anyway.  He tossed back the blankets and climbed off the mattress; she got up with him.  He stepped around to the other side, turned down the comforter, the lighter blanket below, and the sheet, and adjusted the pillows for her.  He gestured for her to settle in.

She glared at him for a second, then exhaled in annoyance, and flopped down onto the bed.

"Take your shoes off," he instructed when it appeared she was going to lie there fully-clothed.

Still glaring at him, she did.  Then she tucked her legs under the triple layer of coverings, and sat up against the headboard, copying Grissom's position of just a moment ago.

"There," he said.  "Comfortable?"

She nodded, still managing to look irritated.

He moved the box of tissues to the nightstand next to her.  He had anticipated correctly, because just a few seconds later, Sara grabbed a tissue and sneezed three times.  She blew her nose, and then pulled another tissue from the box.

"Bless you," Grissom offered.

"Thanks," she said back, her voice suddenly sounding lower.  After she blew her nose the second time and discarded the tissue, she realized that she _did_ feel rather congested; her head and nose were stuffed up, and there was an annoying, scratchy tickle in the back of her throat.  _Wow, this really _does_ hit you all at once,_ she thought.

"I'll be right back," he told her.  He went into the bathroom and emerged shortly, holding a thermometer that he shook down as he walked.  "Let's just get a reading on this," he said, holding the glass instrument near her closed mouth.  When she didn't automatically open up, he added, "Don't worry, I soaked it in hot, soapy water for a couple of minutes and I rinsed it off really well."

She took the thermometer from his fingers and said, "I'll only subject myself to this if you will, too.  It's been quite a while since we've checked your temperature."

"Sure," he agreed with a nod, and she immediately stuck the thermometer into place under her tongue.

Grissom glanced at the clock so he would know when it was time to look at the scale.  A few moments later, he slid the thermometer from her mouth and read it.  "One-oh-two exactly.  The average level of fever associated with the influenza virus."

"And I always thought I was _above_ average," she replied, trying to joke.

He looked at her, and he could tell she felt miserable but was trying to hide it.  "Sara…" he began.

His voice was so serious that she felt the need to meet his eyes.  "What is it?" she asked, holding his gaze.

"Look, I'm really sorry about all this."  He looked down, indicating the rumpled bed and the medicines on the nightstands, before catching her eyes again.  "I'm sorry I got you sick.  All the time you were here, helping me, I never even considered the fact that I was contagious.  I'm sorry."

She knew he was trying to be sincere, but hearing him apologize yet again for things out of his control reminded Sara of her 'threat' from a couple days ago.  "Grissom, do you remember what I said about you apologizing again?"  She added just an edge of menace to her tone, but in reality she was trying hard not to laugh.

Grissom had almost forgotten what she was referring to, but he remembered now, with a touch of panic.  "I remember," he told her warily, unconsciously swallowing hard.  He noticed her right hand curl into a fist.  "Sara," he began, "you wouldn't really…?"  _She's got to be joking,_ he told himself, but he still felt a twinge of doubt.

Sara pulled back her right arm, but then dropped it to her side again.  She looked at him, and the twinkle in her eye let him know that she hadn't been serious.  "You're just lucky I'm too weak right now to even try to make actual contact."

"I'm sure," he said, rubbing his jaw at the imagined impact of an angry Sara's wrath.  "I don't think I would ever want to be on the receiving end of a Sidle right cross."  He smiled at her.

She smiled back.  "You just remember that, Grissom, and we'll be fine."

He got serious again, looking right at her.  "I _am_ sorry about getting you sick, Sara."  He thought of something else, and added quickly, "Are you feeling nauseous at all?  I really hope you didn't catch that stomach virus from me, too.  That was pretty brutal; I wouldn't wish that on anyone."  He shook his head.

"Don't worry, Grissom, my stomach is fine," she assured him.  "And we don't _know_ that I got the flu from you.  It could be going around the lab or something."

"You haven't even been at the lab much in the past couple of days," he pointed out.  "It's much more likely that you got the virus from me."

"It's all right, Grissom, I don't blame you.  It's only the flu anyway—I'll survive."

"I still feel bad, Sara."

"Well, you don't have to."  Wanting to change the subject a bit, she took the thermometer from his hand.  "It's your turn now, remember?"

"I remember," he said reluctantly.

She wiped off the thermometer with a clean tissue, and then shook it.  "Maybe I should rinse it off first, huh?" she asked.

"At this point I don't think it really matters."

"Okay.  Open up," she instructed.

He did, and when Sara read the scale, she wrinkled up her face, a bit surprised at the result.  "Hmm…I guess I win, Grissom.  You've only got a temperature of one-oh-one-point-five."

"Well, then let me go get you something to drink, and then you can take something to bring your fever down."  He indicated the mess of bottles on the nightstand.  "We have plenty of options to choose from."

He stood, took the thermometer from her, and went to put it back in its case.

"So, you're going to be taking care of me, now?" she asked, loudly enough for him to hear across the room.

"Yes," he replied as he emerged from the bathroom.

"But you're sick, too, Grissom."

"You're sicker than I am right now."

"By half a degree!" she protested.

"Still…" he began.  "I owe you for what you've been doing for the past few days.  So, I just thought I'd start paying you back now."

She didn't answer; she just crossed her arms and exhaled audibly—half in exasperation and half in surrender.  She had to admit that she found what he was trying to do very sweet.  But she knew it wasn't a good idea; she didn't say anything, she figured she'd just watch and wait until he keeled over—which she was certain wouldn't take very long.

"So, what do you want to drink, Sara?" he asked, staying focused on his current goal.

"Anything will be fine, Grissom," she replied evenly.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Sure."

"Okay.  Be right back," he promised with a grin.

She heard him messing around in the kitchen, and he came back a few minutes later with a cup in his hand.  "Sorry, I didn't know what you wanted in it.  I took a chance and added some honey, since I know you like your coffee sweetened."

"That's perfect," she said, smiling and taking the cup from him.  "Thanks."  _He knows how I like my coffee?_ she wondered.  She knew that he paid attention to details, but she didn't know that he paid such careful attention to details about _her_.  _He really makes it hard to be mad at him,_ she added to herself.

He left the room again briefly while she sipped the tea.  When he returned, he placed a bottle of water and a glass of juice on the nightstand next to her.  "Just in case you wanted something else to drink," he explained.  "Or to take the pills with."  He went back to the other side of the bed and studied the boxes and bottles for a minute.  "Ah, speaking of which," he said, finding what he was searching for.  He popped two pills out of a foil package and brought them to Sara.  "Here you go.  You should take these."

She swallowed them, and then gave him a little grin.  "You, too, Grissom," she told him.

He looked at her quizzically.  "Me, too, what?"

"You should take something, too.  I know your fever's going up again."

Just then, both their hands shot out toward the tissue box and collided in the air.

"Ow!" Sara complained.

"Sorry," Grissom said, rubbing his fingers.

She pulled out one of the tissues, then moved her hand so he had free access to the box.  After he grabbed a tissue as well, they both sneezed simultaneously.

Two "bless you's" were offered at the exact same moment, and Grissom and Sara stared at each other, until she started laughing and he broke out into a wide grin.

When they calmed down again, Sara asked, "Well, aren't you going to take some medicine?"

"Okay, okay," he surrendered.  He stepped to the other side of the bed, selected two pills for himself, and swallowed them with some Gatorade.  He went back over to her, started adjusting the covers, and said, "Now, I think you should lie down and get some sleep."

The idea sounded wonderfully tempting to her, and she began to snuggle into the soft mattress, when she thought of something.  "What about you, Gris?"

He looked adorably perplexed.  "What do you mean?"

"I know you're tired, and you need your rest, too."

"I'll be fine," he assured her.  "I'll go sack out on the sofa."

"No, you won't," she protested.  "I'm not going to take your bed from you and make you sleep on that tiny couch."  She started to get up.  "_You_ take the bed, Grissom.  I'll go back to my apartment."

"You can't," he blurted, a little too suddenly.

She looked at him, slightly annoyed, but daring him to explain.

Attempting to get his voice back in control, he amended, "I mean, you shouldn't go back to your apartment because there's no one there to…take care of you."

"There's no one _here_ who can take care of me either."

"I'm here."

His reply was so simple and sincere that Sara was shocked into silence for a few seconds.  "I know you're here, Gris, and I appreciate it," she finally said with a smile.  "But you're still pretty sick.  You need some taking care of yourself."

"We could take care of each other," he replied, a tentative half-grin on his face.

She could hardly believe what he had just said.  "Are you sure?"

"It's okay, Sara, just go to sleep," he soothed, lifting the corner of the blanket for her to get under again.

He was being impossibly obstinate, and she was tired of arguing with him, so she just lay there quietly.  But as he walked away, she noticed that he was shivering.  He grabbed his cardigan off the chair and slipped it on, jamming his hands into the pockets as he headed for the living room.

"Hey, Gris?" she called.

He turned towards her.  "What?"

"Look, I can tell you're cold.  And I know you're not feeling any better than I am," she began.  "So…so why don't you just get into the bed, too?"

"Excuse me?"

"It doesn't mean anything, Grissom.  We're both sick and we'll just be sleeping."  She paused, then added, a teasing touch to her tone, "It's not like we haven't done it before."

"That was completely different, Sara."  He stubbornly crossed his arms, but she could see him start to shiver even harder.

"Come on, Grissom, just get into the bed," she urged gently.  "It'll be much more comfortable than the couch, and it's nice and warm under the covers."

He stared at her for a minute, analyzing the situation like it was a mysterious piece of evidence; then he exhaled deeply, signifying that he was giving in.  "Okay," he said, "but first, is there anything that you need, or anything that I can get you?"

"No, I'm fine."

He nodded, took off the sweater, and then slid under the covers on his side of the bed.  He clicked off the lamp, and darkness and exhaustion descended over them.

There was a long succession of rustling of blankets and sheets, and some creaking of bedsprings as Grissom tried to get settled.

As a result of being tired and a bit cranky because she didn't feel well, Sara's patience was wearing very thin.  When the noises he was making kept going for a few minutes, she blurted, "Would you stop squirming around so much, Grissom?  You're shaking the bed."

"Sorry," he replied quietly.

He sounded so worn and apologetic, that Sara felt immediately guilty.  "No, _I'm_ sorry," she said.  "You do whatever you need to get comfortable.  I'm invading _your_ space.  Maybe I should leave after all."

"No, stay," he told her, before she could even make a move to get off the bed.  "Please?"

"All right, Gris, I'll stay," she promised softly.  She touched his hand under the covers to emphasize her words, but quickly pulled away, afraid she might spook him or cause them both to feel awkward.

There was silence for a few minutes in the darkness, until Sara said, "So, do you think Vegas can survive another night of mayhem and murder without two of its top CSIs?"

He looked over at her, although he couldn't see much in the blackness.  "I think Vegas will be just fine," he answered sleepily as he shut his eyes.

She heard the exhaustion in his voice, and she smiled contentedly and closed her eyes, too.  "Good night, Grissom."  Then she thought of something else she wanted to tell him before he fell asleep.  "Gris?" she called quietly.

"It's okay.  I'm right here, honey.  Go to sleep."                        

Her eyes snapped open as the fatigue she felt was forgotten for a moment.  "What did you just say?" she asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

He didn't reply; he just lay there with his eyes closed, a small grin creeping onto his face.

She knew exactly what his silence meant, and her heart began to race.  "You actually _heard_ that?" she wondered, her voice growing louder.  "Oh, God."  Before even waiting for his answer she rushed on, "Gris, I'm _so _sorry about that…I didn't know what I was saying.  I was half-asleep and you were…"

"It's all right, Sara," he assured her, gently urging her into silence.

She remained there in the dark for a few seconds, trying to calm down, but she felt she still had to explain.  "Grissom, I'm really sorry about what I said.  It doesn't have to mean anything…unless…"  She took a breath, not sure if she should go on.  "…unless you want it to," she finished, her voice nearly a whisper.

He finally opened his eyes and rolled toward her.  They could barely make out each other's forms in the darkness.  "Look, Sara, we're both very tired," he said.  "Why don't we just go to sleep and talk about this in the morning?"

"You still want me to stay?"

"Yes, I do."

"All right."  She turned back onto her side and got settled once again on the bed.  Exhaling deeply, she repeated, "Good night, Grissom."  She couldn't prevent the smile that made its way onto her face as she thought of his words, _In__ the morning…_  She happily closed her eyes.

"Good night.  Sleep well," he offered, the small grin still on his lips as well.

And with matching smiles on their weary faces, they both fell asleep.

**END **


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